Turin's Prophecy
by Elwe Singollo
Summary: Chapter 13 up. Conversations after a big event are always interesting... and full of surprises.
1. Preface

PREFACE.  
  
Good wishes, fellow reader.  
  
You were audacious enough to be drawn to this story of the times of old. Most likely by it's name you were beckoned, for Turin is a name none can forget or disregard. But I must warn you, dear friend, for this is a tale filled with pain, dreadful fates and doom; and your heart and mind may be greatly troubled if you stay and listen to this account. So true this is, that no mortal man is supposed to know of these facts, and they were kept secret up to this day; but to me they were revealed, in dreams and sudden enlightenment. Why was I chosen? I can't tell. Perhaps because of my stubborn resolve to delve into the secrets of old; or perhaps because my heart is bruised enough to endure what I witnessed.  
  
Still here? Brave you are! But do not come to me whining later, holding out to me your aching heart and your anxious mind; and don't say I did not warn you, for I did.  
  
Turin. You are probably familiar with his name, many are. He was the greatest of mankind heroes; the bravest, the strongest, save maybe for his father Hurin Thalion; but he was also the darkest of heroes, and the one who's story transcends for being the most tragic of all.  
  
Wronged, persecuted and cursed he was by the foulest of all evils, Melkor, called Morgoth, the first wickedness, The Black Enemy of Iluvatar's children.  
  
But of all this you probably already know, and I shall not waste your time telling you of Turin's earthly life; for many story tellers can give you every detail of it. But there is a part of his story and destiny few know of, for it is beyond his life, and even pass his death; the prophecy of his return. On this I will elaborate, for only a fraction of it was revealed to mankind; but to me it was fully exposed, and if you are patient and bold enough to stay with me through this adventure, then it shall be revealed to you as well.  
  
As follows is the bit revealed to men, as found in the book of lost tales, "The Second Prophecy of Mandos." And it foretells the Dagor Dagorath, the final battle against Melkor that will cease the world at the end of days:  
  
*******  
  
Thus spake the prophecy of Mandos, which he declared in Valmar at the judgment of the Gods, and the rumor of it was whispered among all the Elves of the West: When the world is old and the Powers grow weary, then Morgoth, seeing that the guard sleepeth, shall come back through the Door of the Night out of the timeless void; and he shall destroy the Sun and the Moon.  
  
But Earendil shall descend upon him as a white and searing flame and drive him from the airs. Then shall the army for The Last Battle be gathered on the fields of Valinor. In that day, shall the light come from the west, and the darkness from the east; on one side, covering the land with the brilliance of Aman, the army of the Valar; on the other side, trampling over everything beneath their feet, Morgoth and his hordes, for every foul creature shall be awaked from the depths of earth to battle along with their master. Even the line of Morgoth's drakes shall wake and be released, for it is written: "....they lie imprisoned in the Caves of Forgotten, until the Last Battle and the Day of Doom."  
  
In that day, Tulkas shall strive with Morgoth, and on his right hand shall be Eonwë, and on his left Turin Turambar, son of Hurin, returning from the Doom of Men before his final departure, and his last deed within the Circles of the World will be that the Black Sword of Turin shall deal unto Morgoth his death and final end; and so shall the children of Hurin and all Men be avenged.  
  
Thereafter shall Earth be broken and remade, and the Silmarils shall be recovered out of Air and Earth and Sea; for Earendil shall descend and surrender that flame which he hath had in keeping. Then Fëanor shall take the Three Jewels and bear them to Yavanna Palurien; and she will break them and with their fire rekindle the Two Trees, and a great light shall come forth. And the mountains of Valinor shall be leveled, so that the light shall go out over all the world. In that light the Gods will grow young again, and the Elves awake and all their dead arise, and the purpose of Iluvatar be fulfilled concerning them. But of Men in that day the prophecy of Mandos does not speak, and no Man it names, save Turin only.  
  
********  
  
Now you know of the prophecy; now you know what has been revealed only to a few. But I, in my inquisitiveness wanted to know more as soon as I found those words many years ago. For the chronicles of this ancient Middle Earth fascinated me deeply, and though I knew how it first came to be, its forging, growth and struggles; I did not know how it all ended, and ever since that day I delved, and asked, and thought, and dreamed about this foretelling, for my heart grew heavy over it, and I had no peace. My days went by in constant and unrelenting deliberation, seeking as much as I could find, building in my mind the solution for the riddles in my darkness.  
  
But it all came to a strange conclusion, only two months ago, as in a dream the rest of the prophecy and the truth about the end of Middle Earth was revealed. Strange conclusion I say, for the revelation did not bring peace but further tribulation to my soul, as the full extent of the prophecy proved to be more disturbing and intricate than the brief glance revealed thus far.  
  
Read on, dear friend. Open your mind, heart and soul for I shall open mine.  
  
........................................  
  
TURIN'S PROPHECY.  
  
The White Lady of the Galadhrim stood unmoved upon the heart of Caras Galadhon, gazing down on her mythical mirror that still revealed the thoughts of the Powers of the World. For the first time in countless centuries, she shivered, as she could not discern what the mirror showed her, and her soul was overwhelmed with uncertainty.  
  
"I have never seen you so troubled," came a deep, smooth voice from behind her, and she turned around to find Lord Celeborn staring at her with his pale, ageless face.  
  
"Never before had I seen such dark and baleful mists looming these lands," Galadriel said, her piercing eyes going back to the blurry shapes in the mirror. "Something beyond my understanding draws near, but I cannot see the where, the when or the whom. It is all confounded in the mirror, as if the very Powers of the world could not comprehend."  
  
Celeborn walked up to his beloved wife, covering her cold shoulder with a comforting hand. He gently pulled her away from the visions in the water. "Not all the answers are found in this mirror of yours. Sometimes we must also look to the mirrors the Powers left in other places."  
  
Galadriel scrutinized her husband's face, and saw the same uncertainty she felt in her soul reflecting in the depths of his eyes. "You have seen signs yourself.... Where?"  
  
"You know how my kin delights in the stars," he started, taking her hand and leading her to a clear in the midst of the thick woodland. "Tonight I've looked up to the great and black parchment that is the starlit night, and signs never before seen were shown to me. Behold!" he whispered reverently, as his hand pointed to an unusually bright group of stars shinning boastfully against the dark sky.  
  
"Menelmakar!" gasped the White Queen. Suddenly, the visions in the mirror became clear.  
  
"Yes. The great Swordsman of the Sky. Its path across the firmament has changed. Now it has chosen the summit, where it has lingered for two moons now, and its stars shine brighter than any other, specially the ones of his belt." The elf Lord paused and his eyes lowered upon his wife's. "You know the fate of this gathering of stars; you know what the prophecy spoke."  
  
Galadriel allowed her eyelids to fall upon her all-seeing eyes, and sighed slowly to answer, her words filled with doom. "Yes. It is said of the constellation Menelmakar, with his shining belt, that it would be a sign of Turin Turambar, who should come into the world, and a foreshadowing of the Last Battle that shall be at the end of Days."  
  
"The prophecy is clear, as is now the sign that leads to its completion."  
  
"But it cannot be! The time is not yet right."  
  
Celeborn smiled weakly. "And who are we to say or know when the time is right? Not even the Powers know; only Iluvatar in his wisdom can tell the day and the time."  
  
"Indeed! But it does not make sense. The time of men has not yet started, and men are supposed to rule over the land for an age before the end arrives. How can this be if their time is yet to come?"  
  
Celeborn remained silent, unable to make sense of it himself. For hours they stood silent and still, staring at each other, trying to find an answer. Finally, the Noldorim Queen spoke.  
  
"I cannot pretend to discern the thoughts of Iluvatar, but my heart cannot be fooled. Something dark and dreadful is behind these signs, this is not the work of The One."  
  
Celeborn took her hand, linking her fingers with his. "I'd rather disagree with you, but I cannot. My heart tells me the same, and I can also feel the shadows haunting the world of men. But what are we to do? Our destiny is to sail with the rest of the ring bearers and our departure is now at hand. The elves will take no part in this matter, for the few left in these shores will have no leadership or guidance. Scattered they will live until they decide to sail away."  
  
"No," said the Queen, her voice stern with resolution. "We cannot turn away from this. The elves are obliged to help the world of men, for they are our young brethren."  
  
"Would you choose then to stay in these shores and forsake your fate? Would the rest of the elf Lords do the same? You know all the rulers of the Eldar are appointed to sail with the ring bearer, only months from this day. Would you ask them to stay?"  
  
"No. That is not my right, nor my place. They will sail, as allotted; and you and I will do the same."  
  
"Then?"  
  
"We will call for a secret council, and a sovereign will be ordained to rule over the remaining elves. Then, he must be trained, taught and skilled to face whatever is to come."  
  
"And who has shoulders broad enough to carry such burden in these lands? The line of the Great Eldar Kings is spent. There have been great Rulers of the Noldor, the Sindar and the Teleri; but a King over all the elves has not yet existed. Who can be worthy of this? In this time?"  
  
Galadriel smiled, peacefully now. "There is one whose blood has the strength of the three races; one whose inheritance is great enough to be worthy of this authority; one whose love for these lands is great enough to stay and wield a gallant battle. You know of whom I speak."  
  
"Yes; I know him, and that's why I doubt he can live up to your expectations."  
  
"Do not underestimate his young heart, beloved," the Lady said, holding her husband's face while her voice flowed to the air like a stream of mountain water. "I've seen great potential behind his honest smile. He needs but good instruction, and that we can provide. Besides, he will not be alone, the world of men is strong and Elessar will be at his side, as will the line of the Eorlingas. Together they will be hard to submit."  
  
"You have filled me with hope," Celeborn said, gently holding her by the waist. "Whatever the outcome of this should be, for death or life, the elves will face it with honor."  
  
"So it begins," Galadriel said, the smile suddenly wiped out of her face, as it was not the time to smile, but a time to worry and make haste. "Send messengers to Elrond, Cirdan and Thranduil; the council must be arranged, as soon as possible."  
  
"What about Mithrandir? Shouldn't he be called as well?"  
  
"He already knows. Gandalf the White has already crossed Eregion and makes his way up the Mountains. He will enter the woods of Lorien tomorrow before dusk."  
  
.............................  
  
Hi!  
  
Elwe here, with a second fic. After "IF THE LIGHT. " I thought I was going to take a big rest, but here I am again, I could not hold this story inside of me for long.  
  
Just a few author comments on this story:  
  
It will have many references to the Silmarillion, and at times, I will assume that you are familiar with this book. So if you really want to understand and enjoy this fic, I would recommend you to read, or re-read The Silmarillion, specially the tale of Turin, but also the tale of Eöl and Maeglin, and the whole Luthien and Beren account would be helpful as well, as some events described there will be referenced and assumed through the story.  
  
It will be long, very long; but as the first one, I promise to finish it, no matter what.  
  
I would like to thank Precious Jewelle for her proofreading, I still have some problems with English (remember that it is not my first language) and she helps me to clear up my grammar and orthographic issues. Thank you so much Precious, for your steadfast support to my writings, once again you are my muse.  
  
Remember to leave a comment, please; whether it is to encourage or to criticize (also known as flames); all your comments are well accepted, since they help me to improve, and to deliver a better product for your enjoyment and mine.  
  
And of course I have to say: nothing belongs to me, it all belongs to J.R.R. Tolkien, to whom I will be eternally thankful for his incredible books, and for the world he opened to us. Thank you master Tolkien, I am not worthy.  
  
I sincerely hope you'll enjoy this story. Next chapter will probably take a while, since I'm quite busy, but it will come, sooner or later, it will come. And if you want to be notified as soon as every chapter is posted, just drop me a little note along with your e-mail address, and I will be glad to let you know.  
  
From now on, it begins.  
  
Blessings,  
  
Elwe Singollo. 


	2. The Council

CHAPTER 1  
  
THE COUNCIL  
  
And so it was, that the council of the Elves was appointed to gather in Caras Galadhon, in the deepest places of the Golden Wood. It was held in absolute secrecy, and only the Elven lords of that time had knowledge of the juncture. No commoner was notified, nor members of the other races called, noble or not.  
  
Out of the Elven lords, only Gandalf the White witnessed the assembly, for he had word to say about the matter, and no thought could be hidden from him, not even those of the most ancient Eldar sovereigns.  
  
On September 20, 3020, only a year before the final parting of the ring bearers towards the infinite west, unaccompanied and grave came those who were summoned: Círdan the shipwright, lord to the Elves dwelling in the Gray Havens of Mithlond, once bearer of Narya, the ring of fire; Elrond Peredhil, lord to the Elves of Imladris, second to the High King Gil-galad, bearer of Vilya, the Great Ring; King Thranduil, Sindar lord to the woodland Elves of Eryn Lasgalen, son of Oropher; Gandalf the White of the Istari, Maiar of Manwë and Varda, bearer of Narya, which was entrusted to him by Círdan; and finally the sovereigns over Lorien, and hosts to the council: Lord Celeborn, the Silver Tree, noble Elf of Doriath; and Galadriel, Lady of the Golden Wood, daughter of Finarfin of the Noldor, and bearer of Nenya, the ring of Adamant.  
  
First to talk were the hosts, as they needed to explain the motives of the council, known only by Gandalf, but not by the others. Mostly Celeborn gave the account of the signs and prophecies seen by him and his wife, as the Lady used the time to scrutinize the minds of her attending kin. When the report was completely unfolded, the faces of the lords were grave and stern with worry, but no signs of surprise were shown as they had all felt the darkness and threat drawing near, even as they did not know what it was, and the meeting had only served to confirm their qualms.  
  
They agreed that something had to be done to prevent or ward off the upcoming dread, but when it came to decide what, they all fell into helpless silence, knowing that the time of their people was over, and their sail inevitable. Only Galadriel and Gandalf seemed to remain serene, waiting for the others' minds to settle so they could speak their plans.  
  
"The world of men faces doom," spoke Elrond, his profound voice even lower from heartache. "A threat they are not aware of, and so they cannot fight it back. And yet we cannot alert them, for fright would destroy them as well, as their immature hearts cannot bare such knowledge. Moreover, we cannot even discern what is really coming their way, and so, how can we tell them to defend their selves? How can they tell apart friend from foe?"  
  
The elflord's voice faded, and his severe face showed a weakness never before seen. From all the ones gathered there, he feared most as he had most to lose and to grief for; his foster son was leader and King to a doomed race, but mostly because his daughter, the Evenstar and first to his heart, had chosen to share the unsure fate of men, and was bound to suffer the threat being discussed.  
  
"They cannot," said the White Lady, finally breaking her silence. "And I fear we cannot either. But do not trouble your heart so much, Elrond Peredhil. We all know you suffer for your daughter's decision, but there is still hope."  
  
The entire council held their breaths, waiting to hear the wisdom of the Lady. "It is true that our people's time fades, and that we are appointed to leave shortly. But it is also true that many Elves are young and not yet weary of this land. They will stay for a time, time enough to aid the world of men in what's to come."  
  
"What will they do without leaders?" spoke Thranduil, his prominent form standing from his seat, his fiery eyes shining underneath the crown of golden leaves. "I myself am weary of these lands, and long to look upon the brilliance of Aman, where a well-deserved rest awaits me. I have not the strength to stay and lead my people into yet another war, and I don't believe any of you do."  
  
Gandalf blew a puff of his dear old Toby and cleared his throat. "Peace, King of the Woodland! Why don't you allow our hostess to fully reveal her thoughts? You may as well be surprised, or even pleased."  
  
The wizard shared a conspiracy smile with the Lady, and so, she continued speaking. "Your thoughts and doubts are well placed, King Thranduil. None of us has the strength or the will to stay one day longer than what was appointed, or to wield battle against a force we don't even comprehend. We will sail, all of us, in our due time. But we all must also leave behind our legacy, our heritage and gift to men; and that we can do, with the aid of a young one who would lead the remaining firstborn, a King for all the Elves, who will carry our teachings and intentions, well beyond our final parting."  
  
Still seated and deep in thought, Círdan the shipwright fingered his long, gray beard, a unique attribute among the Elven race. "A King to all Elves," he said slowly, doubtfully. "I know you have dwelt this world longer than anyone can remember, Lady of the Golden Wood; but remember that my days extend as far back as yours, to the time when the earth was young and the blessed trees still gave light in Valinor. Never before has such King existed, not even in the times of old; none has been able to rightfully claim such title, much less carry it for long. Elves are Elves, proud and bound to their blood. But Noldor are Noldor, Teleri are Teleri, Sindar are Sindar, and Silvan are Silvan. How can we unite them all? How can we make them forget the differences and discords of the past? And most importantly, whom will they follow? Would a Teleri follow a Noldor? I highly doubt such thing is possible."  
  
"Once again you are right, skilled shipwright," said the fair Galadriel. "But only in part, for your heart lively remembers the disputes of old, and the quarrels between the races because you lived them, and were part of those times. We all remember and hold the bitter memories, but we are all ancient and weary as well. This is not true for the ones willing to stay; they are young, innocent, and witnesses to a world of change, where Elf follows man, dwarf and hobbit for the sake of the world he still loves."  
  
"We don't love this world," continued the Queen, standing from her seat, appearing before the council, tall and bright, as in her days of a warrior princess. "But the ones staying behind do, and I believe in my heart that to defend the forests, rivers and prairies they care for, they will follow a brave and noble young one, regardless of his race. They will look upon his courage and loyalty, and they will be true to him, for he deserves it."  
  
"And who is this young one you talk about?" asked Thranduil, still skeptical and unimpressed by the Lady's display of power. "Who will earn the trust of all the races? What deeds will he be forced to perform in order to impress the remaining Elves? Tell us your thoughts once and for all."  
  
The Lady walked up to the golden-haired King, proud and confident she came to stand before the imposing woodland ruler. "He will not be forced to perform any feat, for he has already done enough to show his courage. Fear not, Thranduil King, you know this young one very well. He is one that pays no heed to races nor positions, one that showed his courage where no other Elf dared to, a defender of this time; your son Legolas, of the Nine Walkers."  
  
A collective gasp was heard from the ones gathered there, save for Celeborn and Gandalf, who were well aware of the Lady's choice. A long silence followed, as the idea settled in their minds.  
  
"My son?" barely articulated the dumbfounded King. "How can this be your preference? I love my son, but even if he carries blood both of Sindar and Noldor, he is a Silvan wood Elf in more than one way, and far from being regal." 1  
  
The King started pacing back and forth, speaking mostly to himself, and explaining the reasons why his son should not be appointed to such burdens. "I tried to instruct him in the way of royalty, in the ways of Sindar nobility; but he rejected every attempt, and rather adopted the ways of the Silvan folk as his own. I doubt he can carry this burden, no matter how brave he is. He is not well versed in lore nor history, even that of his own heritage. He carries a bow and knife instead of the spears, lances, or swords wielded by Gil-galad, Turgon, and other Elf princes and kings of old. In every way he is a scout, a hunter, a woodland Elf with no care for the troubles of the lords and stewards of his race. How can he become one?"  
  
"That is why he is perfect for this ordeal," interrupted Galadriel. "He is not polluted by politics, and yet he is brave enough to fight for what he believes to be right."  
  
"This is a strange situation," Círdan said, not really addressing anyone. "Legolas has come to Mithlond more than once. I remember him to be tall as a young tree, lithe, immensely strong, hard and resistant to hurt. I believe he is indeed brave and loyal to his friends, regardless of race or title. I know him to be a singer of songs, undaunted and cheerful; but to hold the worries of leadership in such times doesn't seem to be a duty he will be fit for." He paused, letting a memory clear in his mind. "And yet, he learns remarkably fast, faster than most Elves. He became skilled in the art of building ships in one visit. Maybe that ability will serve him well to undertake the task."  
  
"Wisdom cannot be taught," spoke Thranduil. "You may teach him manners, tradition, wit and skill, but wisdom is something acquired only in time. I doubt he can become wise in a matter of few seasons."  
  
This time, it was Elrond who stood up, and everyone else listened closely, anxious to know what he had to say on the matter, as his good judgment was highly esteemed. "I knew Legolas long ago," he said, his eyes looking to the floor he stood on. "I greatly appreciated his visits to Imladris, and the friendship he held to my sons Elladan and Elrohir. This is so true that I indeed hold him dear as if he was my own blood. I know of his courage, reason why I chose him to stand for the Elves in the Ring Quest, and he proved me right by staying true and overcoming the perils and temptations that followed. Yes, he is indeed worthy of trust, and I wouldn't think of anyone else best to appoint the defense of the world of men, and therefore of my daughter's sake. But my heart would ache to load him with such a heavy yoke. He would have to lose his innocence, his joy and his freedom in order to be prepared to face the upcoming darkness; and every forest of the world would weep to lose his true spirit. He is indeed a free soul, and right at this moment he must be running under the stars of a summer night in the depths of Fangorn Forest, accompanied by his friend Gimli the dwarf, oblivious to the cares that consume us. Yes, he is the one fit for the undertaking, but if he does so, it will be against his will and nature, and I have not the heart to ask such a forfeit from him."  
  
Gandalf rested his staff against the seat and leant forward, ready to give his advice. "Small a sacrifice it would be if he can stand against the untimely destruction of men. I traveled with Legolas; facing the worst dreads and doubts I came to know him. The ghosts of Men hold no fear for him, nor does battle dismay him in the least; and I know that he will do whatever is needed, regardless of his own wishes or sake. I can say so because I've seen him put aside his own needs and safety in order to achieve a greater good and to protect those he holds as friends."  
  
The wizard looked around, scanning the faces of the Elf lords. "As for those of you who doubt his competence, let me give you an example so your minds may be at peace. You all know of the Battle of the Last Alliance, and how Oropher, grandfather to Legolas, was slain before the Black Gates along with all the champions of his household and two-thirds of the Silvan Elves. Legolas was but a child at the time, and the horror of such event should be engraved in his mind and soul, as it is in Thranduil's." 2  
  
He looked upon the woodland King, whose face was contorted with apprehension, and the sadness of such loss. He would have never gone near that dreadful place in his life.  
  
Gandalf continued. "And yet with these eyes I saw him charge against those very gates, blindly following a man without second thoughts or hesitation, even when we were beyond all hope. Against his fears, against his sake, he did so, for loyalty to a man; all because he was his friend, and had sworn to follow him even to death. That requires courage and nobility seldom found, and it made me think of Finrod Felagund, or even Fingolfin, great Kings of old. Such courage and unconcern for one's self are what makes a man or an Elf noble, not graveness, not lore, not blood."  
  
None had words to object the wizard's, and so they fell silent, soundlessly nodding their agreement.  
  
Gandalf leaned back. "So, friends, do we all concur with Legolas's ordainment?"  
  
The answer was unanimous and definite. Extending their hands to the wizard, they all agreed to concede their kingdoms, birthrights and authority to the absent Legolas.  
  
"Now we must dedicate ourselves to his instruction," Celeborn said. "All our time and energy should be invested in his preparation. But I have one more question: should he know of the prophecy and signs?"  
  
The answer came quickly from Gandalf. "No. He will be told only what is absolutely necessary; enough he will have facing the cares of kingship. Of course we'll tell him something comes, but details shall not be discussed in his presence."  
  
"And what of Aragorn?" asked a concerned Elrond. "Shouldn't he at least be informed? He could almost be counted as an Elf lord."  
  
"No," said the Queen. "I do not doubt Aragorn's wisdom; but remember that the prophesied one is far greater than any man, and a man he is. Elessar will certainly help to defend his own land, but we don't know what will come first, if it will be enemy or friend. Let his own wisdom decide when the time comes, and let him face it with full strength, without the weariness of anticipation. His heart is set to justice, his mind to insight. I am sure he will choose the right path."  
  
A dismayed sigh escaped the Lord of Rivendell. "Then I fear I have seen my daughter for the last time," he said. "For if we are to meet, my eyes will not be able to hide the truth from her. She would know, and she cannot keep secrets from her husband. It cannot be!" he said bitterly, losing his composure.  
  
"It is all for the best," said Círdan, clutching Elrond's shoulder, and he nodded back.  
  
"I know. It is just that I had promised her to visit her once before my parting. Now I am forced to fail my promise, and never to see her again, not even in Aman will I look upon her fair face. Ai! How I wish to see the brightness of Gil-Estel shinning through this darkened sky; only then would I feel hope, when the white Vingilot bearing my father, the bright Earendil, crosses the firmament again" Elrond fell on his seat, his brow rested over his clutched fist. "It is decided," he said sternly. "Legolas' instruction shall begin in Rivendell, with the aid of the Twin Stars. The art of war will come first; for I fear it is the skill he will need the most."  
  
"So it begins," said Galadriel. "But first we must find him. I will send a company to Fangorn Forest."  
  
................................  
  
And the dark woodland of Fangorn was witness to an unheard event, as Legolas of the Nine Walkers was tracked and hunted like a wild animal by a company of ill-tempered Galadhrim soldiers. Like a criminal he was detained, and like a prisoner he was forced to march towards Lothlorien, much to the dismay and rage of his friend Gimli, who was even more short- tempered than the Lorien soldiers.  
  
The dwarf had lifted his axe against his friend's captors, but Legolas convinced him to still his hand, knowing that a good reason was in order for Lady Galadriel to send such a hasty troop looking for him. He surrendered his weapons, and humbly followed the group; his only concern was to leave Gimli alone in the depths of Fangorn, as the company did not allow the dwarf to join them.  
  
Gimli tried to follow the swift steps of the fleeing Elves, more from his own desire to look upon his beloved White Lady again than out of concern for his friend; but he had never been a good tracker, much less of the silent and light Elves, and so he was quickly left behind. The dwarf decided against going into Lothlorien unaccompanied, and he made his way back to Erebor, where he afterwards gathered a group of his household and friends to part towards Aglarond, the Glittering Caves, where he became lord.  
  
So Legolas was taken to Lorien, and after ambiguous explanations and much beseeching, he, against his will, accepted the title of King of all Elves, only because he could not stand against the will of so many nobles, and he was forced to trust their judgment.  
  
His instruction begun in Rivendell, then he was taken to Eryn Lasgalen, then to Lorien, and lastly to Mithlond.  
  
The ones that had gathered in the council undertook the complex endeavor that was instructing the woodland Elf prince in the ways of a leader, up to the departing of the ring bearers a year afterwards and beyond; for Celeborn stayed yet for a time, bidding his wife farewell so he could help concluding Legolas's preparation. Along with him stayed Thranduil and the Twin Stars, and for two more years the instruction ensued.  
  
Then, they all left Legolas behind and by himself, believing him to be ready and taking with them the last memory of the Elder Days. At their parting they all bestowed every blessing and gifts of great valor, relics of power, and heirlooms that confirmed Legolas's new and absolute authority over the Elves. A new name they gave him as well, Aramarth, The King of Fate, as Galadriel had called him before she left.  
  
Aramarth then traveled to every Elvendom in Middle Earth, and called his people to follow him to Ithilien, where he meant to establish his Kingdom. Few did not answer the call, and his reign was born strong and quickly prospered. But as a result of the unceasing instruction, and as Elrond had feared, Legolas's spirit quickly broke, and he relented his freedom and joy of life to the cares of nobility; and as foreseen by the Elven lord, the forests wept his absence.  
  
.....................................  
  
1 Since the identity of Legolas' mother has never been revealed, and merely for the sake of the story I am assuming that she was of Noldor blood. After all, marriages between Sindar and Noldor were not all that uncommon, look at Galadriel and Celeborn.  
  
2 Legolas' age is also undisclosed, so I took the liberty to assume that he was present at the time of the Battle of the Last Alliance, very young, but a witness of it nevertheless.  
  
Next Chapter, as soon as I can.  
  
Thanks for reading.  
  
Elwe. 


	3. The Time Has Come

CHAPTER 2  
  
THE TIME HAS COME  
  
In the farthest confines of Arda, beyond Angmar and the iced peaks of Carn Dûm, past the barren plains of Forodwaith, and well into the frozen lands of the Northern Waste; where neither man nor elf dared to wander; where the nights were perpetual and the winter unyielding; from the entrance of a cave carved into the eternal ice came out a very tall elf, followed closely by a young man, similar to the elf in his prominent height and angular features.  
  
The elf lifted his dark gray eyes to the constantly black sky, the stormy orbs focusing covetously upon the extraordinarily bright stars that formed the belt of the Swordsman of the Sky.  
  
"Your time has come," he said to the young one standing unmoved beside him. "Prepare for journey, my child. We travel down to meet the life of Arda... and your fate."  
  
The young man nodded once, almost imperceptibly. He pulled the hood of his cloak behind his head, revealing his dark hair, fair skin, and his immensely beautiful yet stern face shining with the poignant gray of his eyes.  
  
"My lord, you promised to give me a name as soon as you were sure, as soon as the time came," spoke the young man, his warm breath freezing as soon as it was met with the winds of the Northern Waste.  
  
The elf smiled, mostly to himself, and it was not a warm smile, but one filled with malice. He too pulled back his hood, showing fully, and for the first time in many years, his face under the sky. Grim he was, dark and grim; and old, though his face revealed no real sign of age; only his eyes, filled with a piercing light, overwhelmed by an ancient resentment, an ever- growing anger of many winters.  
  
The elf turned his imposing height to look at the inquiring young one, and his prying eyes lingered upon the small but evident birthmark upon the man's upper lip. It looked like a scar, but it had been there ever since he was born; he could tell, for his very hands had brought him into the world.  
  
"Are you sure of me now, my lord?" insisted the man.  
  
"Ever since you were able to speak you have asked me to name you," answered the dark elf. "Now I have seen the signs and I am sure; therefore, I shall give you a name."  
  
The elf gave little thought, as if remembering something deep within the shadows of a long gone past. "From now and on, you shall be called Neithan, the wronged one."  
  
"Neithan...." repeated the young man slowly, pleased with his new name.  
  
The dark elf let out a quiet sneer. "Do not grow too fond of your name, for you shall be called with many names, far greater and glorious than the one you now hold, and before the sound of all of them our enemies shall stumble and cower back in fear."  
  
Not really understanding the words, Neithan nodded his gratitude to his lord and went back inside the cave to prepare the announced journey. Though the way he had been raised was against all useless emotion, he could not help to feel somewhat eager, for he had never seen beyond the barren ice of the Northern Waste, and he longed to see the world.  
  
Still outside the cave, the dark elf looked up to Menelmakar once more, the corners of his mouth curving in the same malicious smile. "Soon, my child, you shall walk among those who wronged us, the earth will tremble beneath your feet, and you will deliver the wrath of our revenge. My doubts about you are gone, and now I am sure the prophecy I have guarded with my life has come to be."  
  
..................................  
  
The radiant light of the morning sun collided against the fair walls of Minas Tirith, the majesty of the city boasting in a display of brightness that repeated itself every morning since the restoration of the glory of the old days. Fast the city had flourished under the wise scepter of Elessar King, only three years into the fourth age, and five after the War of the Ring, and the city held peace and wealth not seen since the days of the Numenorean first rulers.  
  
The Queen of Gondor and Arnor, Arwen, daughter of Elrond Peredhil, Evenstar of the firstborn, gazed upon the teeming life gathering on the streets of the White City below her chamber's window. The residents incorporated into their daily occupations without concern, feeling safe inside the powerful walls, protected under the ever-watching eyes of the Army of the White Tree.  
  
She would have liked to feel so safe, so unworried about the future. But a threat grew in her mind with every day that passed, like the shadow of an unseen predator that haunted every waking hour of her life. Only when the strong arms of her husband surrounded her lithe frame could she feel safe and oblivious to the cares of fate, only the sooth of his voice whispering into her ear could chase away the ghouls of her fret. And those times alone with him were cherished beyond anything else, for he was her shelter, the rock she could cling to and rely on in the midst of a world where she did not belong, a world filled with uncertainty.  
  
But lately she had been deprived of many of those moments, as rumors of confrontation started rising in the southern borders, and the King's time was mostly dedicated to the peaceful solution of the conflict.  
  
She had overheard some details, while walking near the site of a meeting. The Easterlings were venturing into the territories of Khand and Harad, arising litigation against the Southrons, and claiming the lands as theirs. Being the land in dispute so near to the borders of Gondor and Arnor, the Nobles of Minas Tirith grew worried, and deliberated on a way to secure their own land.  
  
The deep blue of her eyes lingered upon the pearly white of the Tower of Ecthelion and the well-guarded walls. Her mind told her to be at peace, and that nothing would disturb her life with Aragorn; but her heart told her otherwise. Being the daughter of Elrond Peredhil, she had some of his gift of foreseeing the turns of the future, and Arwen remembered how the Easterlings had allied to Sauron in the War of the Ring, and heard of their greed and covetousness for power.  
  
Even when the spring morning sun reached inside the window where she stood, a shiver forced it's way up her spine and to her neck, and she enfolded her shoulders with her arms, feeling weak once again.  
  
She tried to regain composure as she heard light steps approaching her from behind, and breathing in deeply, she straightened her back and rose her chin, for she could not afford to be seen in such falter of her spirit. Her visitor approached slowly and without revealing his identity, but as he was close to her, Arwen could sense the unmistakable scent of her beloved husband.  
  
Before she could turn to greet him, he hurried to envelope her with his arms, bringing her close to him, and planting a kiss upon the back of her neck. Arwen reached back to caress his rough face, leaning on him contentedly, relishing in the sense of homeliness that only his broad chest gave her, and that she so desperately needed.  
  
"Good morning, my Queen," he said, burying his nose into the fragrance of her long, dark tresses and breathing in deeply, feeling like he had been deep into the dark and troubled waters of life as a king, and could just until now come back to a sunny surface and breathe again.  
  
"Good morning," she answered, trying to appear jovial. She did not want to worry him with her cares, for his own were great enough, and she believed that any time spent with him was not about concerns but about joy.  
  
Aragorn stepped forward to stand by her side, putting his arm around her shoulder almost possessively while Arwen continued to stare at the city coming to life beneath them. His eyes, however, belonged only to her perfect face, for being so close to her, nothing else mattered, and his duties as king were promptly forgotten.  
  
"You seem deep in contemplation," he said, scrutinizing her face. "Is there anything bothering you?"  
  
Arwen flinched inwardly, fearing he could see past her façade. "No, my lord," she hurried to answer, and tearing her eyes from the city below, she turned to look at him with a bright smile.  
  
The King was no fool, and he raised an eyebrow, trying to interpret her behavior, but all analysis was soon forgotten as her petal-soft lips pressed against his mouth in a warm kiss that grew in time and depth.  
  
Arwen parted from him, and much to his enjoyment, she glanced briefly but suggestively towards the ample royal bed, the soft, luxurious bedclothes appearing more inviting than ever. Long it had been, too long.  
  
Then, Aragorn seemed to have been hit by some sort of realization, and he groaned in sheer disappointment. "Oh Valar!" he practically whined, while pulling away from Arwen's needful embrace. "I forgot that I came to give you news."  
  
Arwen sighed with resignation. "News?"  
  
"Aye," said Aragorn, a coy smile upon his angular face. "And for some reason, as I was coming to tell you they seemed like wonderful news, but now.... not so much."  
  
Arwen let out a small laughter, seeing the boyish shyness in the otherwise solemn face of her husband; she felt glad he could still manage to amuse her. "Well, are you going to tell me the news or are you planning to stand there and stare forever?"  
  
Aragorn cleared his throat. "Visitors have been announced," he said, the dignity of his position returning to his voice. "Very welcomed and cherished visitors from the west."  
  
Arwen's heart skipped a beat. For a time that had seemed endless she had waited to hear from very special visitors from the west, but the party she so longed for never came. Resignation took the place of anxiety, for she suddenly remembered the exact day and hour when she, from afar, felt their presence fade from Arda, with no last embrace, no last goodbye. Whoever these visitors from the west were, she was sure it was not her father, nor her brothers.  
  
A shadow of sorrow fell over her, but she was gracious enough to ask. "And who could these visitors be?"  
  
Aragorn, on the other hand, seemed rather enthusiastic. "Come with me, and see for yourself," he said, taking her hand and urging her to follow.  
  
Arwen let show her reluctance to tend guests, feeling her current mood wasn't exactly the best to entertain. "I was hoping to spend some time on my own. if you don't mind," she said, as carefully as she could, hoping not to raise too many questions from the King.  
  
"I am afraid I cannot comply to you in this occasion, love, for their deeds and position, our guests must be highly honored, and they specifically asked to see us both, specially you, since they bring you word," Aragorn said, the authority in his words leaving no space for contestation.  
  
Arwen then, had no choice but to follow; yet deep inside she was intrigued to know what word could these visitors bring for her.  
  
.......................................  
  
Meriadoc Brandybuck and Peregrin Took stood in the middle of a splendidly illuminated assembly room in Minas Tirith. Brought in by Royal Guards, they awaited for the arrival of their old friend Strider and the fairest of all, Lady Arwen.  
  
Pippin turned around slowly, his head raised and his mouth half open in awe while contemplating the magnificence of Gondor's architecture, while Merry paced around and entertained himself with a good puff of pipe weed.  
  
"What is taking them so long?" Merry said impatiently, snapping Pippin out of his wonderment.  
  
"What?" Pippin managed to articulate, while his mind transited from wondering about the size and brilliance of the room to his constant and everlasting concern. "Maybe they are having breakfast, and decided not to share it with us."  
  
Merry was tempted to give his cousin a good whack in the head, but then again, he was a hobbit, too. "Maybe you are right. I mean, here we are, exhausted and starved from an endless journey, and nobody in this enormous city has even cared to offer us something to ease our famine."  
  
"You are right!" added Pippin. "That would never happen inside a hobbit hole, I tell you, never!"  
  
All their thoughts and growling stomachs were at once forgotten as the King and Queen of Gondor entered the hall, the same striking brilliance of the room reflecting from their very beings. Once again, Pippin found his mouth half open from the awe of seeing them together, but this time, his wonderment was joined by Merry's own admiration.  
  
As soon as she entered the room, Arwen's eyes found the two tallest, most daring and cheerful hobbits ever to exist; and she was glad to admit that the mere sight of them brought great delight to her heart.  
  
The two hobbits lowered their heads and kneeled before the royal couple, feeling somewhat overwhelmed by the mere presence of their splendor; for even when they had seen them together before, in the glorious day of their blessed wedding, it seemed to them that the majesty of the King and Queen of Gondor heightened even more as time passed.  
  
Arwen let out a small cry, and hurried herself towards them. "No, Master Peregrin, Master Meriadoc! Please rise. Rise, my dear friends, and let me see your faces."  
  
Aragorn too had hurried to stand before them, and as he reached them, he dropped to his knees and brought the two little heroes to his chest in a tight embrace. Then, he pulled back and, keeping them on arm's reach, he studied their faces.  
  
"It is most joyous to see you again, Peregrin, Thain of the Shire; and Meriadoc, Master of Buckland," the King whispered softly, his words filled with emotion and his head bowed in respect.  
  
At loss for words, the two hobbits managed only to nod, while Aragorn's strong arms aided them to stand on their feet again.  
  
Arwen then came forward, and regarding them with fond eyes she spoke. "Allow me to greet as you well deserve, my lords." And bowing down, she planted a kiss upon each of their brows.  
  
Then she straightened, and a smile graced her already stunning face, an honest, heartfelt smile. "Forgive us for keeping you waiting so long; I am to be blamed for that. But for my defense, I did not know it was you who had come," she said, glaring at an innocent-looking Aragorn.  
  
Merry and Pippin felt their faces grow red from awkwardness, and it was Pippin who came forward and took the Lady's hand between his own small ones. "Please! Think nothing of it, dear lady."  
  
Then, as the young hobbit raised his face to look at her, Arwen saw a shade of seriousness she had never seen in Pippin's joyous eyes.  
  
"My lady," he said softly and solemnly. "The main reason why we are here is to bring you word from your father, Lord Elrond."  
  
Arwen would have fallen to her knees if it weren't for Aragorn's opportune intervention; slipping an arm around her waist, he kept her from faltering.  
  
Merry finally found his words as well. "We would have come much sooner," he said, his words as sober as Pippin's. "We would have come as soon as Lord Elrond requested it from us upon his parting from the Grey Havens; but the Shire takes its amount of care, and much was to be done before we could leave; and the journey was long, so long."  
  
Aragorn felt Arwen's body beginning to tremble, and saw as her face paled unnaturally. The mention of her father was affecting her deeply, and he feared she was to faint or to break down in weep imminently.  
  
"Let us not talk about this here," he said, trying to lift the heavy air from around them. "Let us go to the city gardens to enjoy a fine breakfast, then you can tell us all about it over a fine meal." He saw the hobbits' faces brightening upon the mention of a meal. "I am sure you both must be starving after such a long journey."  
  
"Oh, do not worry, my dear Strider," Merry said with a wide smile. "We just had our first breakfast; just outside the city walls."  
  
Aragorn's brow furrowed. "Master Merry, Master Pippin.... do you not want to join us for breakfast then?"  
  
Pippin opened his mouth to state his opinion on the matter, but was quickly cut by his cousin's stare, and decided to keep silence.  
  
Merry then slapped Aragorn's back cordially, starting once again to feel familiar with him. "But of course we will join you. We would not even think about rejecting an invitation from the King of Gondor. Right, Pippin?"  
  
"Oh no! We could never be so rude Merry, never!"  
  
Aragorn could not suppress a knowing smile. "This way, gentlemen," he said showing them the exit to the gardens. And while the two hobbits walked out, chattering obliviously, he gathered Arwen tightly in his arms. "Are you well?" he whispered, concerned.  
  
Arwen took a deep breath to steady herself before parting from his arms. "I will be," she said, making haste towards the gardens, anxious to hear the words her father had for her. After years of silence, pain and uncertainty, she was finally going to know why her father had left her without a last goodbye.  
  
.......................................  
  
Author Notes:  
  
I am finding very hard to stick to the books' timeline and events, I think I am going to be forced to put AU in this very soon. Too bad! I so wanted to stick to Tolkien. Darn my mind that travels so far!  
  
Visual Help: I don't know if this helps, but besides the known LotR characters (which would look just like in the movies) I have a visual idea of actors who would represent the characters not portrayed in the movies. So in this chapter, this is the "Casting":  
  
The Dark Elf : Jason Isaacs (from "The Patriot"), long, dark hair, gray eyes.  
  
Neithan: Joaquin Phoenix (Everybody knows him), only much taller.  
  
Let me know what you think about this Visual Help thing, if you like it, I will keep on doing it with any further major character that appears in the fic.  
  
Thank you.  
  
Elwe. 


	4. Hadathor

CHAPTER 3  
  
HADATHOR  
  
"We almost could not make it to the farewell of the ring bearers," said Merry, leaning against the cozy seat at the breakfast table. His appetite was well satisfied, and the air of the bright, lush gardens of the Lady Arwen should have brought great enjoyment to his heart. But he felt weary, as if he could no longer hold on to a burden too heavy to carry for the simple heart of a Hobbit.  
  
Arwen listened to him intently, the food on the dishes before her untouched; her hands locked together and twisted nervously from time to time.  
  
"But we could not let Frodo go without a last goodbye."  
  
"Nor did we want to let Sam travel all the way to the Shire by himself," added Pippin with a sad smile. "Not after seeing dear Frodo leave."  
  
"They were already aboard the Great Ship when we reached the Grey Havens," continued Merry. "Frodo, Gandalf, the Lady of Lothlorien. and Lord Elrond. The moorings were already loose and the ship was slowly moving towards deep water."  
  
"We dismounted hastily, deeming that we would have to settle with waving them goodbye. But after we shouted to call Frodo's attention, the ropes were thrown to dry land, and we helped bring the ship back to the haven."  
  
"I fastened one of the cords to a rod in the harbor, expecting to see Frodo coming to our farewell, but instead of that, Lord Elrond leaped on the fastened cord, and walked over it towards where we stood."  
  
"Amazing how nimble he is." said Pippin absentmindedly, remembering the elf lord's prowess, while Arwen's heart menaced to burst out of her chest any moment then. Pippin seemed to remain oblivious to the Lady's distress. "Especially for his age."  
  
"Pippin!" Merry cleared his throat and continued. "At first I thought he was going to scold us for being so late, but as he came close I could see his eyes filled with... relief."  
  
Merry paused to look at Arwen's eyes, seeing all the hope and uncertainty reflecting in her restless gaze. But all he could focus on was the sadness those eyes spoke of, the same helpless sadness he had seen in Elrond's eyes when the elf lord had kneeled before him on the moist soil of Mithlond.  
  
The Hobbit stood from his seat, and going around the table, he came to Arwen's side. Holding back the lump forming in his throat he gently placed a hand over the Queen's forearm and spoke as softly and deeply as he could, his words intended only for her ears to listen.  
  
"He asked us to bring you his last farewell, and his request for forgiveness for breaking his promise to hold you in his arms one last time before twilight."  
  
Searing tears began welling up in Arwen's eyes, and it seemed as if she was going to break in painful weep any moment then. Aragorn's voice thundered through the peace of the garden. "Leave us!" he said, and the servants around the table vanished away to the corridors of the royal house.  
  
Aragorn then stood up. "I shall leave as well," he whispered.  
  
"No." The voice of Pippin startled him, as he was about to turn away. "There is message for you as well."  
  
King Elessar slowly slumped on top of his seat. He placed his hand over Arwen's, trying to give her comfort, but all he could do was cringe, as he felt the wintriness of her skin.  
  
Merry took a deep and shaky breath. It had been difficult to witness the weakness and sorrow of someone as grandiose as Lord Elrond; but to see the same falter on that which was fairest of all, one whom he thought could never be touched by grief; it was... it was rending his heart.  
  
"He said you will always be in his mind and heart, that he will love you beyond the distance of Aman, and the circles of Arda. And that wherever you are to go, even after you embrace the gift of men you have chosen, he will be with you." Merry let go a heavy gasp, as if the words he said had been burning his insides. At last, he had fulfilled his promise.  
  
"Why?" Arwen stifled, trying not to suffocate with the questions in her chest.  
  
Merry recoiled, unable to utter any other word, unable to witness for another instant the pain reflecting in her face. It was then that Peregrin came forward. "He said one day you'd understand his choices, as he understood yours; that all he has ever done is for your sake."  
  
Pippin took both of Arwen's slender hands between his own smaller, stubbier ones; his eyes starting to well up with tears, mirroring those in front of him. "He said you are never going to be alone, that he leaves power in this world to protect you from all harm and pain, that you must trust this power, for a part of himself lives in it."  
  
Arwen shook her head slowly. What power could he be speaking of? What did all that mean?  
  
Pippin seemed to have heard her thoughts. "His words were those only; he gave no further explanation. With that, and a blessing to us both, he walked back into the ship."  
  
Arwen lowered her head, supporting her forehead on the palm of her cold hand. The hobbits' message had brought some comfort, but no peace to her heart, only further uncertainty. Moreover, the residue of the distant farewell tasted bitterer than ever.  
  
"You said there is a message for me as well," Aragorn said, and it was Meriadoc who came forward this time. The Hobbit's face was oddly stern, and Aragorn could swear he saw Lord Elrond's furrowed brow and firm eyes coming to life in the face of his little friend.  
  
"To Estel I send these words," spoke Merry, echoing the elf lord to perfection. "Keep your eyes wide open, son of man. May your heart be wise and your arms strong so you can meet what comes your way; and give your trust only to those who deserve it."  
  
Aragorn's face became as grave as Merry's. He knew his foster father's words bore a serious warning, and were not to be taken lightly. Also, it somehow bothered him that Elrond had not commended him to look after Arwen.  
  
After all messages were delivered, a thoughtful silence fell over the four of them for the longest of times. Words were weighted, and carefully engraved into the King and Queen's minds. Whatever they meant, they were both sure to remember every word uttered that morning forever.  
  
"We dearly thank you," Arwen said, putting an end to the silence and to such an aching interval of her life. "To bear such messages all the way to Gondor is a commendable feat from both of you."  
  
Both Hobbits curtseyed. "Think nothing of it. It was the least we could do."  
  
"Who else went to the farewell of the ring bearers?" Aragorn asked, trying to change both the subject and the gloomy mood they had all fallen into.  
  
"Mostly elves," answered Pippin, while he and Merry returned to their seats. "Actually, other than us and Sam, only elves were there. Legolas was there as well."  
  
"Legolas?" inquired Aragorn, anxious to know more about his old friend. Since the war of the ring, only rumors of him had circulated around Minas Tirith, strange rumors.  
  
"Yes, but he wouldn't talk to us. He only nodded a greeting from afar and rushed away from the Havens, closely escorted by the Twin Stars of Rivendell and Lord Celeborn of Lorien."  
  
"Escorted?"  
  
"So it seemed, at least to me," Merry said, lighting up some Toby in his dear pipe. "He also seemed different."  
  
"Different? How different?"  
  
"I don't know. Everything about him didn't seem to be quite the same. His stance, his clothes; even his face."  
  
"He looked sort of worried," Pippin added. "As if he was carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders."  
  
Aragorn had wanted to know of Legolas's actions ever since he had come to live at Ithilien less than a year before. He'd heard comments about him he hadn't been able to confirm, and Ithilien had remained oddly silent and detached from Gondor's affairs and normal life. His opportunity to hear more was not going to be misused, so he carefully chose the words of his next question to get the most out his friends.  
  
"And. why do you think he seemed so troubled?"  
  
Merry and Pippin looked at each other and shrugged. Then, Merry started pounding the wooden board of the table with his fingers, as if trying to remember something. "Although... Sam was telling us about some peculiar happenings about him and the other elves on our way back to the Shire. Right! I remember; he was talking about some ceremony they performed before we arrived to the Grey Havens. Something about all the Elven lords abdicating their authority over to Legolas."  
  
Aragorn and Arwen looked at each other, unsuccessfully trying to conceal their astonishment. The rumors they'd heard were true.  
  
Merry continued tapping the table. "How did he say they were calling him? ... Aramarth! Right, that's the name the Lady of the Golden Wood gave him."  
  
"If they'd asked me," Pippin intervened. "I would have said I like the name Legolas way better. But would they listen to a Hobbit? No..."  
  
Aragorn cleared his throat, trying to stop Pippin from straying away from the theme of his interest. "What else did Sam say?"  
  
"Not much. Only that he overheard that Legolas was heading to Rivendell to continue his instruction with Elrond's sons and the Lord of Lorien."  
  
Aragorn pondered the news for a while. He loved Legolas dearly, but he could not help to feel stunned by the confirmation of the rumors he'd heard.  
  
"My friends," he said, standing up from his seat. "I am sorry for my inquisition; you must be longing for a good rest. Please, make yourselves at home amid these walls. My house is your home."  
  
"Mighty kind of you, dear Strider. But we are only staying for a day or two. The journey back to the Shire is a long one indeed."  
  
"I will come to talk with you later. Right now I need to confer with my beautiful wife." Aragorn then offered his hand to the Lady Arwen and they started walking through the garden.  
  
........................  
  
"How are you feeling?" asked the Lord of Gondor, while he and his wife strolled unhurriedly towards the midst of the gardens.  
  
Arwen did not answer. She took her time to feel in the surroundings of her beloved gardens. It was inevitable. The tall trees, the joyful chirps of the feathered inquilines, the scents of rich soil mixed with the numerous flowers and the fresh foliage, the sound of their light steps over the walkway's flawlessly fitted river rocks, and the crisp sound of the few shriveled, fallen leaves they stepped on. It all reminded her of Imladris, of days when she walked hand-in-hand with the same man by her side, but also had the certainty that her father was near, waiting for her return home from a quiet wander.  
  
It should have been enjoyable to be able to remember those days so vividly, but it was not. It was hurtful; it was like pouring salt over the bleeding wounds.  
  
Aragorn pressed his lips into a thin line, cursing himself for being so naïve and insensible. How could he even ask how she was feeling? He very well knew how she felt. She was torn, confused, and above all in awful pain. He knew all too well how hard it was for her to detach herself from her people, from her family. Even though she never uttered a word of complaint, and tried to conceal her suffering from him, he knew. Moreover, he knew that she had poured all those burdens over herself for him, to be with him.  
  
He stopped his long strides and held her to his chest. "It is not too late," he said with a voice he thought foreign as soon it left his lips. "You could still go after them, if that is your wish." His very words horrified him, but he was compelled to offer her freedom.  
  
Arwen pushed him back, taken aback by his offer. Her late-afternoon sky- like eyes scrutinized the grey glum of his concealing orbs. "No, I cannot," she said simply, but firmly.  
  
"I cannot bear to see you suffer," Aragorn whispered, entranced by the pure whiteness of her face.  
  
Arwen laid a hand over his bearded chin. "And you think I would not suffer without you?" Her words were not those of a question, but an affirmation. "You think I could live an eternity without what you have given me in the time we have been together? No, Aragorn, that choice was already laid before me once and I chose my path. You are my path."  
  
She pulled him into a gentle kiss, and he could not help but to sigh in relief. But still in the happiness of hearing her reassurance, he could not help but to feel unworthy of her sacrifice. He pulled back, his face strained with remorse. She frowned, having neither strength nor disposition to deal with his unnecessary guilt. "Know this, beloved. I do not regret my decision. Never will my pain be big enough to lament my choice. But." she paused, firmly grasping his large hand as if trying to attach him to reality. "You must understand the way I feel."  
  
"I do," muttered the King. "I feel it in the core of my bones; and that's why I wish I had the power to take the pain away from you."  
  
Arwen turned away from him and began walking again. The garden was as cheerful and full of life as before. But for them both, it had become awfully silent and dull. "You will, my love; with time, you will."  
  
Aragorn picked the cue, realizing she had no desire to speak on the matter any more. With only two long strides he was promptly walking by her side again. He would have confided with her about the uneasiness that Elrond's words brought to him, but he rather picked a lighter subject. "Say, what are your thoughts on all those Legolas's reports?"  
  
"Aramarth," she said, absentmindedly. The name sounded uncannily ostentatious when vocalized by her lips, too flamboyant to relate to their earthy archer friend. "I find them... odd."  
  
Odd. That was not the word she truly meant. In her mind the adjective that came much closer to define the situation was: absurd. It was not that Arwen didn't hold Legolas as a noble and brave friend, with a heart as pure and good as one can possibly ask. Contrary, for his allegiance and devotion towards Aragorn, she held an admiration and gratitude towards the Greenwood archer few knew of.  
  
"King of all elves," almost sighed Aragorn. "It is indeed hard to believe. To proclaim a King of the Firstborn when the race is appointed to fade from these lands. Why?"  
  
In truth, Aragorn held many doubts since quite a while before. When he learned Legolas was coming to live at Ithilien with a group of elves, he was more than pleased, deeming that a strong bond was to be placed between the new realm and Gondor. Time passed, and much to his surprise, Ithilien remained silent and remote. Then he learned from travelers that not only the elves from Eryn Lasgalen had joined the dexterous archer, that people from all Elvendoms came to live by his word, and that he was assembling a powerful army and a firm stronghold.  
  
He would have liked to travel down to meet Legolas, but the matters of the restoration of the Kingdom took all his time and energy, and so he decided to send emissaries to greet the new Lord of Ithilien and to clarify the situation. Faramir and Eowyn agreed to go, happy to visit their old friend, promising to bring news to Minas Tirith. But time passed and the visit lasted far longer than what was planned, arising yet more doubts and questions in the heart of the King. Finally, nearly a month after their leave-taking, the Steward of Gondor sent a message to his King, excusing himself and his wife for their absence; and, without much explanation, letting him know that they wished to stay and dwell in Ithilien. Aragorn was pained for their definite leaving, but did not object to their decision since he remembered how pleasant it was to have a home among elves. He sent all of Faramir's household and entourage to Ithilien, and ever since, the two realms remained apart.  
  
"What is more, why Legolas?" said Arwen, already feeling livelier from the captivating conversation, and pushing Aragorn out of his train of thought.  
  
The King scratched his beard, and smiled warmly. "I couldn't think of anyone fitter for the position..." He looked at the quizzical stare Arwen was giving him. "If elves weren't elves, if lore meant nothing, he would be the perfect king."  
  
Arwen's right eyebrow was raised impossibly high, her mouth almost forming into a smirk. "There is so much more to an Elven king than a good heart and courage. The reasons for his ordainment are beyond me."  
  
Aragorn felt somewhat annoyed by Arwen's comment. "Why is your regard for him so low? You are barely acquainted with him."  
  
Arwen picked the edge in the King's voice. "Do not misinterpret me, love. I just believe it is going to be hard for him to earn the esteem of the other stiff and arrogant nobles. I know he was born with both Sindar and Noldor noble blood, but he carries out like a Silvan wood elf."  
  
Aragorn's face twitched an inch at the mention of the adjectives so many had used before to scorn his dear friend, not that Legolas was ever bothered to be called Silvan folk, or wood elf; but his blood was more than noble. It was regal, from the proud line of Oropher.  
  
Arwen's eyes brightened, as she was proud of her husband's disposition to stand up for his dear friend. "Aragorn!" she said, almost scolding him. "I find Legolas's uncomplicated and honest qualities charming and purely irresistible. Even if I met him until a few years ago and during a time of darkness, I deem him as a wild but wonderful creature, capable to bring joy and music where only darkness and silence could be found. I deeply care for him, not only because he would die by your side, but also since he manages to brighten my heart with a mere flicker of one of his spellbinding smiles."  
  
Now it was Aragorn's eyebrow the one raised high, hearing the admiring words and seeing the dreamy expression on his wife's eyes. "Should I start feeling jealous?" he half-taunted, earning a glare from the Queen's lovely face. An amused laugh escaped him. "And when did you come to know him so well? I thought you had barely seen him."  
  
"I spent some time with him, after father's council. I could not believe I hadn't met him before, especially since he was such a good friend of yours. And..." She trailed off, and Aragorn thought he had seen her blush.  
  
"And?"  
  
Arwen could not conceal the amusement this conversation was giving her. "Well, it doesn't take much time nor effort to fall in love with him. Don't you think?"  
  
Aragorn took a deep breath, and gazed at the blue sky above. "Yes, it is quite easy for him to enter one's heart." He remembered the war of the ring, the many times in which the vivacious elf had managed to bring hope to him, even when there was none left. The King's grey eyes became nostalgic, his voice wistful. "I miss him. I miss his inquisitiveness, his voice, the life that seems to emanate from him."  
  
"That's exactly why I find his ordainment inappropriate," Arwen said, returning to the real theme of the conversation.  
  
Aragorn defended his friend yet again. "But you heard what the Periannath said, the lords instructed him. They probably formed him well enough since they all proclaimed him heir to their power."  
  
"Well, I honestly hope that didn't happen," Arwen countered. "Legolas is a spirit of the forest, a wondrous being filled with sincerity and ease, not an overbearing, self-important Elven ruler. To change that would be just wrong."  
  
"Maybe you are right; but the point remains that he is indeed the King of all elves, and as such we must support him."  
  
"Of course! That is." Arwen's words were suddenly disrupted as she felt a third person in the garden, someone quickly coming close to where they stood.  
  
"Good morrow, my lieges!" came the obsequious voice of Gondor's General. Arwen had learned to tolerate the presence of the obnoxious man, but every time she heard his voice, she couldn't help but to feel beleaguered.  
  
"General Hadathor," greeted Aragorn, bothered that the man had interrupted his time with Arwen, but nevertheless polite and open to him.  
  
The general's tall but lean frame came to their sight. He had not the body of a military man, since he was not particularly strong. His manners and always-flawless garb reminded more of a flimsy courtesan than a warrior. But his fame as strategist had transcended in Gondor over the skill of any other man. His position as general had been more by blood than merit, being the cousin of Denethor; but he showed his ability to handle the task, since his clever speech was enough both to still or inflame the valor of his men.  
  
"I hope you can forgive my interference," the man said, his brazen eyes fixed on the annoyed face of the Queen before bowing down slightly.  
  
Arwen could do nothing but clench her jaw and swallow her exasperation. Ever since she had met General Hadathor she had taken an unrelenting distrust towards him, but Aragorn seemed to regard the meandering man, deeming that he was a good adviser and a defendant of the kingdom, and so she was forced to bear with him. Not that the man had ever disrespected her, for his words had always been kind and overly flattering towards her, but there was something in him she didn't quite like. She was disturbed by the arrogance in his fawn, inquisitive eyes; the way he neatly groomed every hair on his head and chin to a perfection she thought unnatural; but most of all, his voice, which was cold and soft like a shadow, capable to drill his opinions and aspirations into the minds of most men.  
  
"What brings you here, General?" spoke Aragorn, oblivious to Arwen's unease around the man.  
  
"Maybe we should move to some place more secluded, my lord. It is a delicate issue." Hadathor's voice slithered like a wisp of winter wind, as always convincing and alluring, while his eyes settled on the Queen.  
  
"Nonsense!" said Aragorn, whose mind was of course too judicious to be so easily driven. "Whatever you have to say, the Queen is entitled to listen. There is no one else in this garden."  
  
Hadathor's face remained impassive. "Of course. Forgive my foolishness. I just did not want to upset the Queen with disquieting news," he said, finally tearing his eyes from Arwen's face, and focusing on the King. "I bring news from the South, alarming news." He paused, as if allowing the words to make a greater impression.  
  
"Well?" Aragorn said, growing impatient with the man's meander.  
  
"The Easterlings, my lord; they have stormed through Harad with a mass of warriors, meeting nearly no resistance from the Southrons. And..."  
  
"And?" Aragorn asked, as calmed as he could.  
  
"Hearsay is that they are about to reach the river Poros."  
  
"The River Poros?! That is the border to South Ithilien!" Aragorn felt his knees faltering. "How many?"  
  
"Thousands, my lord."  
  
Aragorn started pacing back and forth, as he always did whenever he was tense. "How is this possible? I thought their quarrel was with the Southrons. How is it that they met no resistance from them? We should have heard news of such a raid before!"  
  
"I never said there was a raid, my liege," the General said, almost apologetically, but the sleek tone of his voice felt more like pity towards a naïve lad. "When I said they met no resistance, it was because the Southrons did not try to stop them. There was no real confrontation."  
  
The King finally lost his equanimity. "How? Why?" he stuttered. He'd never thought the South conflict to be a direct threat to Gondor.  
  
"Well, there is a detail we found out," the General said, the reluctance to reveal it almost showing in his voice. "Brodda, the emperor of the Easterlings is said to be coming along with the troops, and word is that his intentions are not of war or conquest. He claims he comes to negotiate, and that the troops are only a demonstration of the Easter power. "  
  
Aragorn felt the color coming back to his face. "Negotiate," he said, with a sigh of relief. "Do you know about his terms?"  
  
"That remains to be discussed, my king, between Brodda and yourself. That is why you need to go south and meet him. And my advice is to bring along the most of the army of the White Tree. just for protection."  
  
Aragorn did not like the prospect of marching through Gondor with the whole army behind him, deeming it unsettling and confrontational, but the facts cornered him. "I suppose that if Brodda brings a display of might..."  
  
"Gondor cannot stay behind!" The General stated, almost too fervently, and cutting off Aragorn's thoughts. "We must let him know that we do not fear him, that we are superior in every way." Hadathor's voice had changed, losing the coolness he had before; his speech was now heated.  
  
Aragorn decided to ignore the man's impertinence, focusing on more important matters. "What if a battle breaks? I am open to negotiate, but I fear their intentions."  
  
"That is why you must take the most of the army to meet him. They would not even think of starting a war when they witness the power of Gondor." The General's point was irrefutable, although Aragorn would have preferred a different solution.  
  
"So it is decided," the King said discontentedly. "We march to Ithilien, as soon as possible."  
  
Hadathor bowed slightly, and turned to leave since there was much preparation to do. But Aragorn still had one more question.  
  
"General, before you go. What is Ithilien's position on this? What of the King of elves? What of the Steward of Gondor?"  
  
The General turned to look at the King, with a half smile on his face that seemed out of sarcasm. "They have remained as silent as ever, my lord. I guess that is another issue you can clear while being down south." Again, his voice was cool and soft as a shadow.  
  
Aragorn smiled. Suddenly the trip didn't seem as such a bad idea. "Aye, finally I will go to see the new kingdom of the firstborn, and meet their King."  
  
Arwen, who had remained silent but attentive, finally spoke. "I wish to travel with you," she said without hesitation, her gaze held firmly upon the General of Gondor, as if waiting for the man's imminent opposition to her request, and ready to retort to him. She knew how low was the General's regard for the female kind, and how he deemed them frail and useless.  
  
To her surprise, Hadathor's sarcastic smile broadened to one that seemed out of victory. "I think that is a fantastic idea, my Queen."  
  
Aragorn raised one eyebrow. "You do not think it is risky?"  
  
Hadathor was quick to answer. "Of course not, my lord. Where else could our lovely Queen be safer than surrounded and guarded by the powerful army of the White Tree? Besides, it will be good for the Lady to visit her kinfolk in Ithilien. May she find some solace to the constant pain that is living devoid of the light of her people," he said courteously, his eyes filled with somewhat resembling sympathy towards the dumbfounded Queen.  
  
Arwen could not believe it. Had she misjudged the general? Was the obnoxious man after all as sensible and perceptive as Aragorn credited him to be? Was this why everyone else but her listened to every one of his words as if they were absolute truth? She decided she should wait and see, but her mind was decidedly more open to give Hadathor a second chance.  
  
"It will be also pleasant for Your Majesties to meet the Steward of Gondor and the White Lady of Rohan." Hadathor said with an indecipherable smile. "Perhaps the quandary might even become a joyful event."  
  
As always, the General's words seemed to point towards the wisest option, and as such were beyond contestation. Hadathor did not even bother to stay and wait for the trip's confirmation. He knew he had them both convinced and thinking exactly the way he wanted them to be. He curtseyed, and uttering a soft "Majesties", he disappeared from the garden.  
  
Aragorn took his wife's hand. "Settled it is, we travel to Ithilien."  
  
........................  
  
AUTHOR NOTE  
  
And yet a new character is introduced: Hadathor. Pay attention to this guy, for he will have a big part in the forthcoming events, and he is also a very interesting individual.  
  
VISUAL AID: The only person in this world I can picture playing Hadathor is John Malkovich. (Remember 'Dangerous Liaisons'?)  
  
Thank you so much for reading my story, and don't forget to review.  
  
Elwe. 


	5. Raging Waters

CHAPTER 4  
  
RAGING WATERS  
  
More than a week it took to prepare the journey, but on November 15, 3024, a contingent of three thousand armed men leaded by the very Monarchs of Gondor was set and ready to cross the gates of Minas Tirith and march towards South Ithilien.  
  
Standing by the hefty gateway were the hobbits Merry and Pippin, waiting to bid farewell to the assemblage, and ready to begin their own journey towards the Shire. They would have liked to join the King and Queen on their unusual trip, and Aragorn even suggested it, more than once. But they had been away from their homes and obligations for many months, and quite frankly they felt homesick already.  
  
Elessar and the Evenstar both halted their steeds, stopping the whole entourage as well, upon seeing the two noble friends, their own mounts set and ready to depart towards the west. They dismounted and walked towards them, a tender smile on both the sovereigns' faces. "It is a beautiful morning to travel, don't you think, little masters?" Aragorn greeted first.  
  
Pippin took a deep breath, closing his eyes to feel the air of the sunrise. "It is indeed, Strider friend," the young hobbit said, loosening his stance to receive Aragorn's friendly embrace, and patting the man's broad back with equal affability.  
  
"There, there, Aragorn!" Pippin said with strangled voice. "No need to smother the hobbit. We will meet again, since you owe us a visit to the Shire."  
  
Aragorn released him, becoming conscious he had been inadvertently squeezing the life out of his little friend. "I apologize, my friend. And I promise to honor you as my hosts. Until that day, you'll be greatly missed," the King said, moving to embrace Merry, more measured of his strength this time.  
  
Meanwhile Arwen offered a flock of butterfly kisses to the blissful face of Peregrin. "My Lady, not even the lasses in Hobbiton greet me so effusively," Pippin said, reddening just a bit.  
  
Arwen straightened herself, chuckling softly. "Well, then they don't know what they miss."  
  
It was then that the face of Peregrin turned as red as a beet. "My Lady, you flatter me. It is 'almost' embarrassing."  
  
"Embarrassment?" Merry said with a snort. "I thought you knew not such thing, Pippin."  
  
The smug smile on Meriadoc's face disappeared as soon as the Queen lowered herself upon him, ready to grant him the same treatment she had given to Peregrin. But the Queen noted the shade of sadness crossing the hobbit's eyes, something resembling a bittersweet memory coming to his mind. Holding his face between her soft hands, she inquired him. "What ails you so, Master Meriadoc? Is there something I can do to lessen this ache?"  
  
"There is, my Lady. And I will be so daring as to ask a favor from you," Merry said, almost somberly.  
  
"Pray tell me, dear friend. If it is within my reach, it will be done," Arwen said, concern evident in her serene voice.  
  
"The White Lady of Rohan. You are to meet her, are you not?" Merry tried.  
  
"Yes, I am," Arwen said straight-faced, suddenly understanding the Hobbit's behavior.  
  
"If you could be so kind as to carry with you a blessing for her, and a message as well, I would be forever thankful."  
  
"And it will be my pleasure," Arwen stated earnestly, noting how Pippin had moved to place a hand upon his cousin's shoulder, an offer of silent support. Everybody close enough to Merry knew of the meaningful bond he held with Eowyn of Rohan, and the deep feelings he had for his sister in arms at the Pelennor Fields.  
  
"Tell her.... that she is always in my memory. Both the bravest knight of Rohan, Dernhelm; and the fair splendor of the daughter of kings, Eowyn will live in this heart forever. And if she at any time finds herself in need, behold! I am here, the one who would do the undoable to give back the hope she once gave me at the darkest hour of my life."  
  
"Your words will reach her as if carried by the wings of the wind, Master Meriadoc, unchanged and as they were uttered," Arwen said, planting only a soft and reverent kiss upon the hobbit's forehead.  
  
"May your steeds be swift and your road easy," Aragorn said, climbing on his mount. "May you find your homelands safe and thriving."  
  
The hobbits touched their chests, greeting the King and Queen in the elven way. "Same to you, my friend. That no weapon or intrigues forged against you prosper."  
  
..........................................  
  
The army left the city, the gleam of metal under the morning sun contrasting with the green and yellow of the crop fields. The crowd was fully attired; the horses outfitted with silver and new leather, the officials uniformed with golden and red; holding the proud banner of the tree high up for the world to see; the branches and stars standing out over the black velvet background.  
  
Just under a thousand soldiers were on horse, forming the mighty cavalry; fifteen hundred archers with long bows and thick arrows; and over fifteen hundred trained infantry soldiers brandishing long swords, carved shields and lances for short-range, man-to-man combat. Aragorn insisted in keeping the walking columns together with the cavalry contingent, despite Hadathor's claims of unnecessary delay; and so the entire group advanced sluggishly through the fields of Gondor joined tightly, adjusting to the pace of the soldiers walking with heavy armors and gear on their backs.  
  
Arwen took the opportunity to admire the raw beauty of the countryside. Leaning contently on Asfaloth's soft back, her long fingers played absently with the steed's mane, while her eyes lingered on the flourishing crops, the peaceful herds, and the honest simplicity on the faces of the farmers and shepherds. This was it, she thought; this was what they were traveling to defend and protect. It was so different from the landscapes she had known as an elf, so far away from the ancient forests and the elegant buildings. And yet, as she looked upon the curious eyes of a child who had stopped helping his father in caring for a group of lazy, plump sheep, just to look in awe at the impressive army passing by, she knew that it was all worth fighting for.  
  
She liked to travel, at least the first hours, for it took her mind away from her constant concerns and fears. Moreover, she enjoyed that her husband was always by her side, telling her of his adventures in Rohan and Belfalas, when he was known as Thorongil and all that mattered to him was adventure and epic deeds. He also told her of the creatures and trees that inhabited those lands as they found them, most of them unknown to her but not to him, for he in his mortal lifespan had seen more of the world than her in her long centuries, and everyday she learnt something new from him and the land he so much loved.  
  
Three days they journeyed southward, and Arwen started to feel fatigued and somewhat sick. It was odd, for she had always been extraordinarily resilient to long trips and outdoor life, but she blamed it on the long and slow journey and the fact that she was no longer immune to the mortals' ails. She would often prompt Asfaloth to go ahead of the group, sickened by the heavy heat and smell that a three thousand soldiers group emanated, and yearned for fresh air and solitude. This was much to the dismay of Aragorn, who would start crying out her name and searching frantically whenever she disappeared from his sight. He for sure tried to stop her little flights; but she was a sneaky one, and so was her blasted horse, as the King liked to call the stealthy Asfaloth.  
  
The group was about to reach the bridge at Pelargir when general Hadathor left his position in the midst of the cavalry to go forward and speak with the King and Queen. He greeted them, as flatteringly as he could, and continued to discuss some minor array issues with Aragorn. Then, he noted the disgusted face of the Queen, who had some problems controlling her sickness and discomfort from the long journey.  
  
"You seem somewhat distressed, my Queen," he said, moving his horse closer to Arwen's.  
  
"It is nothing, sir," she said, reluctant to stand the man's examination.  
  
Hadathor allowed some distance between him and the Queen, but not before commenting. "It must be the long journey, and the vitiated air from the multitude," he said thoughtfully. "You know, my liege, there is a lovely river shore just east of here. Maybe the fresh waters of the Anduin can provide soothe to our weary queen," he suggested sympathetically.  
  
Arwen's face brightened at the prospect of a cool landscape, and a splash of fresh water on her face. Aragorn didn't think it was a good idea to diverge from their course. "Yes, I remember that shore. The current is fast and the water's fierce. Maybe we should wait for a calmer stream."  
  
"Please, Aragorn, we don't have to bring the whole army. Just allow me to race there and I'll catch up with the crowd quickly afterwards."  
  
"No, it is too dangerous."  
  
Arwen sighed disappointed, but not defeated. "Then order a group of horsemen to follow and protect me."  
  
Aragorn was not yet convinced, but as Arwen came near, brandishing the best of her pleading eyes, he knew his determination was doomed. "Very well! But I will go with you," he groaned, signaling a cavalry leader to set apart an escort.  
  
"I would like to go as well, if you don't mind," Hadathor said, smiling harmlessly. "I also need some renewal."  
  
......................................  
  
The small convoy of less than ten men quickly got away from the main group, heading straight east towards the Anduin's riverbed. Arwen on Asfaloth leaded the group, since her horse was the swiftest of them all. Promptly enough, she could hear the powerful waters roaring just ahead of her, reminding her of the constant lull of the rivers that crossed her homeland Rivendell from side to side.  
  
Finally, the sight of a tall and thick forest that consistently grew alongside the Great River greeted her. The cool shade of the mossy trees and the welcoming scent of green infused wellness and joy to her at once, so much that she did not heed a sense of being watched that came to her as soon as she entered the trees, nor the feel of a strong presence lingering all over the setting. No, all she cared for was the sight of white water and cold spray from the furious stream.  
  
She dismounted, hearing Aragorn and company as they entered the forest only steps behind her, but unwilling to wait for them. She walked as in a dream, spotting a protrusion of the terrain that stretched over the waters that seemed to call for her, luring her to go near. Her mind went numb, concerned only to get a handful of that water to splash on her face. Her feet stepped boldly on the precarious strip of land hanging over the raging waters, and she kneeled at the very edge of it, stretching her body to reach down the foamy current.  
  
It was a strange feeling, to care about nothing else, to think of nothing more than the simplest of actions. A deep part of her tried to wake from the anomalous slumber in which her mind had fallen into; but the spell was strong and her awareness unprepared to face such force.  
  
She heard the distant and hazy voice of Aragorn calling her name. "Arwen, get away from there!"  
  
She heard the cries, but cared no more. She stretched further over the edge, so that the very tips of her fingers could finally touch the frosty water, and an immense joy came to her upon feeling the achievement of her strange obsession. It was then that the veil was lifted from her mind and she heard, loud and near, the desperation in her husband's voice calling for her. But still, in her wake, she could not comprehend or realize the danger she was in. Then, everything around her turned indistinct and disturbed, and the stab of freezing cold surrounded her.  
  
Aragorn let out a bawl of sheer panic as he saw the woman that was everything to him falling into the furious river. He was near, only steps away, so he could see the confusion and unawareness in her eyes as the ground buckled beneath her. He ran, with all his might, trying to dive into the murderous river, convinced that he could struggle against the raging waters that were so hastily dragging his Queen away from him. But a pair of determined arms seized him and knocked him to the ground, just before he could reach the waters.  
  
"Your armor, my King!" he heard Hadathor yell, while he struggled against the General's grip. "The weight of it will sink you to the bottom at once!"  
  
Aragorn let out a holler of rage, digging his fingers into the mud of the river while he saw Arwen going further away, her head barely surfacing out of the waters.  
  
"Reconsider, my lord! She may still survive, but you would certainly die. Don't make her a widow!"  
  
Three soldiers dived in, out of the love for their Queen. The three of them were helplessly pulled down by their heavy armors, and died.  
  
Aragorn forcefully pushed Hadathor off of him and got up, racing frantically towards his horse, closely followed by the General and the remaining men. They tried to follow the river shore, but the terrain was steep and lopsided, making impossible for the steeds to compete with the pace of the river. Soon enough, there was no sign of the Queen and only the rampant waters could be seen.  
  
...................................  
  
A powerful slap of awareness came to Arwen as she fell in the icy waters, and her survival instincts took over her body and mind. She lunged up with all her might, as the air had left her chest upon the drop, and she was in desperate need of it. Her face surfaced and she could breathe air with a loud gasp, but the weight of her drenched garments pulled her down again, and she cursed herself for wearing such dense clothes. She waved her arms frantically, panicking as her legs begun bumping into the river rocks, faster and harder with every second that passed. The idea of death crossed her mind, and she reasoned that if she didn't drown, the edgy rocks would break her body.  
  
She thought of Aragorn, while she struggled to balance her body, trying to get herself out of the spiraling vortex of the river as it dragged her further downstream, towards even more violent waters. She would not let go of him, at least not without a fight.  
  
But the waters were pitiless and potent, and soon enough the strength and will to survive started draining from her. The strokes of her arms became slower, her kicks feeble, insufficient to keep her surfaced. She thought of a last prayer, overwhelmed by the fear of mortal's death and uncertainty as her body sunk with ease towards the dark green depths of the Anduin.  
  
She closed her eyes, surprised by the silence beneath the turbulent surface, abandoning herself to her untimely fate. But it was then, when all hope had left her, that she felt an outstanding force pulling her back up towards the surface and life. A force so great that it was capable to defeat the ruthless river. It retrieved her from the depth she had fallen into, pulling by her long, black tresses until the light of the day filled her eyes and the roar of the river hammered her ears once again.  
  
Arwen coughed out the water she'd swallowed, gasping forcefully to draw breath. She felt and saw an arm holding her across her chest, towing her vigorously towards the shore. Then, she was lifted by two strong arms and she could do nothing but instinctively hold on tight to her rescuer's neck, leaning her head on his warm shoulder until he carefully placed her on dry land and safety.  
  
She looked upon her savior, expecting to see Aragorn's face, or even a brave soldier of Gondor, but the face she saw stunned her.  
  
It was a young man, tall and handsome, fairest of all the men she had seen in her long lifespan. She was taken aback by his exceptional features, by the blackness of his hair, the mysteriousness of his gray eyes. So special he was, that if it wasn't for his incipient and youthful stubble, Arwen thought, he could have been mistaken for an elf of the elder days.  
  
The man looked at her with concern. "Are you well, lady?"  
  
His voice was also measured and pleasing to her ears, like the voice of a prince; but as she straightened up, Arwen noted he was dressed in old and worn-out clothes.  
  
"I am well now, my lord. Thank you, thank you for saving my life," she said earnestly, scrutinizing the stranger's eyes.  
  
The man kneeled beside where she was sitting, examining her from afar. "You are either very strong or incredibly lucky," he said, noting that the rocks had not injured her. Then his eyes focused on her face. "Of course, you are of elven blood."  
  
Arwen was about to ask for his name when the sound of pounding hoofs and cries of distress reached her from behind the trees, as Aragorn and company raced madly downstream, looking for her.  
  
"My lord!" a soldier called, spotting the drenched Queen seated near the shore.  
  
Aragorn pulled the reins of his mount, turning sharply towards her, and lunged himself to the ground upon reaching her. Arwen could see the fear in his eyes, already being washed away by the tears of relief and happiness upon finding her breathing.  
  
No words left the once eloquent King's mouth as his arms encircled the one he loved most, pulling her against his chest and feeling life coming back to his body. They stayed like that, just holding each other in a celebration of life, until both heartbeats stilled to normality; and they understood everything would be all right.  
  
Aragorn pulled back, noticing the tall figure standing respectfully only steps away. He lifted up his eyes to the imposing young man, looking at him with a mixture of awe and confusion.  
  
Arwen drew the strands of her disheveled and soaked hair away from her face. "Aragorn, this is." She cleared her throat. "Now I realize I don't even know his name, but this is the one who pulled me out of the waters."  
  
The King looked at the raucous river, more violent and tumultuous than upstream, and then his eyes searched the young man, who was drenched and pale, still breathing heavily from the strenuous exertion. He unfastened the scarlet cape from his royal armor, and wrapped it lovingly about Arwen's still trembling body. Then, he stood up and walked towards the stranger.  
  
The young man bowed his head, undoubtedly recognizing the power of the one before him. "I knew not I was helping one of such high position."  
  
"And that makes your deed even greater," Aragorn said, placing a hand over the man's shoulder. "Lift your face and bow not, friend. It is I who should bow and even kneel before the one I owe my everything."  
  
The stranger lifted his face, and Aragorn also noted the exceptionality of his features; proud and fair, with an air of ancientness that reminded him of the very Lord Elrond. He was tall; his body lithe, but well-muscled under the scruffy clothes he wore; his dark and thick hair was cut very close to his head, dissimilar with the shoulder-length manner that was usual and widely spread over middle earth. But the young man's rareness was the least important matter in Aragorn's mind; all he cared for was what he had done.  
  
"What blessed providence sent you to our lives?" the King whispered. "Who are you, noble hero?"  
  
"I am neither a noble or a hero, my lord; nor was I sent by anyone's will or word. I was barely in the right place, at the right time," the stranger said coolly, but politely. "And if you ask who I am, know that I am no more than a homeless wanderer of this world, and my name cannot claim estate or heritage."  
  
"I still don't know your name," Aragorn said with a smile, already fond of the lad's unassuming nature. "But if you won't give me your name, I will call you brother, for today you have become my kin, whether you like it or not. Your unparalleled bravery and prowess earned you a place of honor among the proud bloodline of Númenor."  
  
"I do not deserve or need such recognition, sir. I barely saw a soul in deathly distress and was bound to aid, for I could not just stand and let her die. I gave no second thought before going into the water, and I believe anybody with a sense of humanity would have done the same."  
  
"You refuse to take credit, and that makes me want to give you more of it," Aragorn said, then he turned around to look at the roaring waters. "Look at that stream, brother; look at the might of that river. I have not met a man that can go into those waters and get out while still breathing. You did so, and your strength was enough even to bring out another with you. I know no man that would go into such a death trap with no hesitation, for if three of my soldiers gave their lives while trying to do so, it was out of love and loyalty to me and their Queen. But you, you did it out of compassion for a stranger. Tell me, had you no fear?"  
  
"No, my lord, fear never reached me, for I ran and swam faster than any fear."  
  
Aragorn found himself perplex with admiration. "Have you no regard for your own life?"  
  
"I had nothing to lose."  
  
Aragorn remained silent, remembering the days long gone when he was very much like the young man. "You fear nothing not because you own nothing, but because you love nothing," he finally said. "But to live without loving is not a complete life, and you will learn that in time. I want you to experience love, so you can be a whole man, and that is why from now and on you are no longer homeless. I offer you a place of honor in my country, lands, possessions, and a high rank in my army, for such bravery and prowess can be very useful protecting the well being of our realm. Other than that, I'll give you anything you ask me for. But tell me, please, what is your name?"  
  
The man remained silent, brushing his fingers over the sharp piece of dark metal hanging from an ordinary leather cord around his neck.  
  
"You do have a name."  
  
The young man wiped his face with the cloth a soldier offered him. "I do, my lord," he said, raising his head and fixing his bright eyes upon the King's.  
  
"My name is Neithan."  
  
.....................................  
  
AUTHOR NOTE  
  
You do remember Neithan, right? In case you don't, he was introduced briefly on Chapter 2, "The Time Has Come".  
  
Well, this is going to get interesting from now and on, but it's going to take a while. The plot in my head is so thick that I'm finding it hard to organize logically, but I'll work on it as much as I can, I promise.  
  
Next chapter, Legolas finally becomes a player, making a spectacular entrance to the plot and to the lives of Aragorn, Arwen and Hadathor. All I can tell you is that they will all be deeply impressed with the new King of Elves, and hopefully you will be as well.  
  
Peace.  
  
Elwe 


	6. Meeting

CHAPTER 5  
  
MEETING  
  
"Neithan," Aragorn repeated, surprised by the unusual name.  
  
Arwen joined the exchange, standing beside her husband and nestling her cold hand in Aragorn's large and warm one. "That is a name I've heard only once before, a very significant name from past times that are already forgotten by most," she said.  
  
"I know not what it means, or why was I called so," Neithan said. "The ones who cared for me as a child gave it to me, and I left their house when I was still too young to care for its meaning."  
  
"You had no parents?" Arwen asked, seeing a glimpse beyond the man's exterior.  
  
"No, and I don't know who my parents are or were. All my life I have been on my own, traveling and worrying about nothing but to see the next sunrise. That is why I must decline your offers, King of Gondor. I will bind my self to no city or realm, and I was not born to belong to your army. You see, I don't even know how to wield a sword."  
  
Aragorn stepped forward, unwilling to accept a negative. "You saved what is most valuable to me in this world and beyond; please let me compensate you in some way. I could not live with such a debt unpaid."  
  
"You owe me nothing," Neithan stated strongly, but still respectfully. "What I did, I did on my own accord and aiming for no reward. I sacrificed nothing but some travel time and a cold water dip. My clothes are already drying...." he said, feeling his ragged garments with his hands. Then, he furrowed his brow. "What do you know!" he said, feeling an absence in his belt. "Apparently my hunting knife is nowhere to be found."  
  
Aragorn smiled triumphantly, reaching his belt for his own hunting knife, a gift from Lord Celeborn of Lothlorien that had seen service in the very War of the Ring. "Do not grieve for it, brother Neithan. I replace it right now with my own," he said, putting the curved blade on the man's hand.  
  
Neithan admired the light and exquisite knife, knowing for a fact that elven nobility had crafted it. He had not the opportunity to object the costly gift, for a voice hinted with affront uttered his thoughts. "My King, you give this vagrant such a valuable heirloom," Hadathor said, sounding almost alarmed. "Let him have mine or one of the soldier's. That knife should pass to your heir only."  
  
Aragorn fixed his eyes on the General's, looking at him with a mixture of irritation and pity. "Fool," he said through gritted teeth. "I would gladly give this 'vagrant' the very Anduril if he asked it from me." Then, the King stilled Neithan's hand, which was about to give back the much-famed knife. "Keep it, good Neithan," he said, closing the man's fingers around the beautiful hilt. "Too small a reward it is for the one who gave life back to me. This knife was a gift from Arwen's grandfather; surely he would be honored if you accept to have it."  
  
"Arwen..." repeated Neithan, the elvish name rolling out of his tongue flawlessly. "Beautiful name; perfect for the one who bears it." He paused, while giving the Queen a brief, but intent stare. "I accept your gift, and thank you for it. I will use it wisely, and cherish it for as long as I live."  
  
Aragorn patted the man's shoulder. "Your speech is refined, and your manners impeccable. It is hard to believe you are a mere wanderer."  
  
"That I am," Neithan hurried to respond. "And I should be going back to my path now."  
  
"And where does your path take you?" asked the King, a hopeful glint in his eyes.  
  
"South; I heard there is a vast army camping at the River Poros, and I want to see it for myself."  
  
Aragorn smiled jubilantly. He was hoping for the chance to get to know the intriguing young man. "Then you can travel with us. We are heading the same way."  
  
"I travel alone."  
  
"Come, young Neithan! Do not decline me so or I'll be affronted," Aragorn said lightheartedly. "I merely ask for the opportunity to converse with you."  
  
Neithan hesitated.  
  
"Come!" insisted Aragorn. "We are not such terrible company. Besides, if what you want is to see a vast army, then you don't have to go that far. The army of the White Tree marches south, only minutes from here."  
  
"Alright," Neithan finally said, apparently out of excuses to reply.  
  
....................................  
  
And so, the young man joined the group on their journey. Aragorn lent him (since Neithan wouldn't accept it as a gift) a spare horse from one of the soldiers fallen in the river. The bodies of the courageous men could not be rescued for proper burial, and so the honors to them had to be paid from afar and to the very river that had consumed them.  
  
Neithan felt somewhat clumsy and awkward on the steed lent to him, being the first time in his life he had ever been atop a horse; but Aragorn gladly and quickly helped him, whispering soothing words to the animal, and showing Neithan how to handle the bridles.  
  
Arwen, despite being thankful for Neithan's rescue, couldn't help but to keep a distance from the young man. She felt intimidated and restless whenever the man's gray eyes were set on her. Something she couldn't quite comprehend behind the poignancy of his stare made her feel immature, like a sense of ancientness in him beyond her own days. But she did not voice her thoughts to Aragorn and tried to conceal her feelings, seeing the quick and strong fondness her husband had taken for Neithan.  
  
Quickly enough, the reduced group of riders caught up with the slowly marching columns of the army. The monarchs took their place in front of the lines with Neithan never leaving their side, and they continued heading south until they reached the bridge of Pelargir at the borders of South Ithilien.  
  
During the trip, Aragorn noted the awe in the face of his young new friend while he looked at the might of Gondor's army. Against his most essential instincts, the King was not concerned by the nearly covetous glint in the man's mysterious and disquieting eyes, and he even repeated the offer he had given earlier.  
  
"You could be a part of this," he told Neithan under his breath, bringing him out of his contemplation. "You could be a very important part of this."  
  
Neithan smiled, and Arwen could swear she saw irony in the man's face. But his voice was still courteous when he answered. "Again I must say no to you, King Elessar. I would rather seize the lonely but simple life of the woods and roads."  
  
Aragorn nodded silently, his gaze focusing on the orange glimmer of the sunset lights over the now contrastingly calm waters of the Anduin beneath the Pelargir Bridge ahead. Arwen, too, looked at the landscape slowly uncovering before them; the sight was indeed beautiful, but it made her sad and almost sick with remorse.  
  
"If only I could have waited," she thought to herself, looking at the slow and steady currents of the Great River that broadened before going into the Bay of Belfalas. It was almost impossible to believe this was the same river that had almost claimed her life and consumed three valuable and beloved soldiers. Her heart shrunk, thinking about the fallen ones, knowing that each one of them was someone's husband, father, or son. To know it wasn't a battlefield but her very stubbornness that had made widows and orphans ripped her heart like nothing else before, and so she remained silent, and deep in grief.  
  
The imposing army stopped just before crossing the bridge, since Aragorn decided to camp and wait until sunrise to cross it for night was too near. With the last crimson lights coming from Belfalas, the group lifted up the tents.  
  
Neithan was offered to spend the night inside a tent but he refused, claiming that he would rather go through the night by the fire and under the stars, and Aragorn was not surprised by his decision; after all, he still remembered the time when the only place he felt contented to sleep was over the warm soil and greeted by the shivering stars. Now, the King's only desire was to spend the night inside a warm and sheltered tent, sprawled over clean blankets, and clung to the body of his wife.  
  
But first, Aragorn had insisted to go sit by Neithan's fire, bringing a simple and frugal dinner that the monarchs and their mysterious friend ate slowly and in silence, staring at the crackling flames. Aragorn tried to make conversation but Neithan did not show much enthusiasm to chat, and neither did Arwen, who shifted her body and diverted her eyes to the sides, feeling the man's disturbing gaze setting upon her from time to time.  
  
Aragorn took his cue and called it a night. He got up, stretching his sore body and yawning lazily. "Well, I believe it is time to let this young man rest... though it seems that he needs no such thing," he said, looking curiously at Neithan, who was sitting straight and unmoved, showing absolutely no sign of weariness despite the day's events and long ride.  
  
"Will you ever cease to amaze me?" Aragorn said, extending his hand to ask Arwen to join him. "You seem to be ready for a good hunt and not a good sleep."  
  
"It is hard to wear me out," the young man answered simply, his eyes fixated on the reddish flames. "I wish you both a good night."  
  
"Same to you, brother," Aragorn whispered, while Arwen finally dared to set her eyes upon Neithan, and was startled to see that he was looking straight at her. She gathered up courage and held her gaze to him, noting how his face seemed even more stunning when illuminated by the shifting light of the fire. Stunning, yes, but more disconcerting than ever. His big, primeval eyes appeared to magnetize the fiery light of the flames, shining boastfully while surrounded by the dark shadows of the angular bones beneath the skin of his face.  
  
Arwen looked away, shaken by a single shiver that ran through her backbone, and turned to follow the safety of her husband's embrace. Nevertheless, she could feel those eyes following her as she walked away, nearly physically burning the back of her neck.  
  
Indeed, Neithan watched every one of Arwen's movements as she hastily got away, aware that his attitude was risky and could be interpreted as suspicious, but unable to stop himself from looking at her. He squeezed his eyes shut, struggling to regain control; cursing himself for a weakness he had not yet known. Never before in his life had he seen a woman, and now he was confronted with one that was called the fairest of them all. He shook his head vigorously, for his master had warned him against the treacherous spell of the witch's face.  
  
When his eyes opened again, they were as calm and firm as before. Still, he could not help but to feel glad that he had saved the Queen; even pleased that he had carried her winded body and allowed her to see the light yet for a time.  
  
"Pity..." he muttered under his breath, so none else could hear his words; his eyes looking to the evening stars above, "... that such a beautiful thing ought to die so soon."  
  
....................................  
  
The night went by uneventfully, the peaceful darkness opening up to a beautiful sun rising up from behind the once dreadful ridges of Ephel Dúath. The camp woke to the first lights and packed hastily in order to continue their journey towards the south.  
  
The wide bridge was crossed without incident by the well-arrayed columns, leaded by their King and Queen. Neithan stayed in the back of the group, claiming that he wanted to get a better look at the entire army, and already showing an uncanny ability and ease in the art of riding a warhorse. Aragorn looked back at the remarkable young man, his eyes filled with something that resembled fatherly pride as the now-skilled rider sprinted effortlessly through the tight passages between the infantry lines.  
  
Arwen noted the admiration in her husband's eyes, still unable to voice her discomfort around the newcomer, and tried to convince herself that she was misjudging the young man; after all, he had saved her from certain death. Against the strong forewarning coming from the deepest fibers of her soul, she decided to ignore her own intuition, specially since as the journey continued, she once again began to feel the same physical illness that had urged her to go into the river; although this time she dared not to go forward or to get away from the thick air emanating from the group, and she focused all her energy and concerns in not getting sick.  
  
....................................  
  
Three hours they journeyed into the lush forest of South Ithilien, the large group trampling over not a small number of plant life, new sprouts and blossoms, leaving quite a large trail as evidence of their passing.  
  
Suddenly, the dense forest around them became awfully quiet. The birds and bugs stopped their chirps, and the wind stopped its dance with the branches of the tall trees. Neithan was the first to notice the change in the forest air; and he pulled the reins of his steed to a halt, even before the susceptible animals sensed the tensing in the atmosphere and began neighing and kicking the ground nervously.  
  
Aragorn lifted his fisted hand, signaling the group to stop at once, and began scanning the surroundings with his sharp eyes and alert ears. Hadathor motioned his horse to go forward and opened his mouth to speak to the King, but before he could utter sound, Aragorn shushed him.  
  
"Shh! Listen..." the King hissed, while the horses grew even more restless under their riders.  
  
"Something is out there," muttered Neithan, who had moved to stand beside the King. "And it is very near."  
  
Arwen's senses were conscious of the presence as well, but she did not feel threatened or disturbed by it at all. "Fear not," she said softly. "I sense no evil, nor menace."  
  
It was then that the powerful and piercing sound of a horn filled the group's ears. It was near, surprisingly near, and Neithan began turning his horse from side to side fretfully, as if expecting an attack from a still unseen enemy.  
  
"Easy!" shouted Aragorn, so the entire group could hear him. "I can still recognize that as the sound of an elven war horn, though I cannot tell from which house."  
  
Arwen was quick to elucidate. "It is the sound of a Galadhrim horn, from the fair Lothlorien, though the meaning of the call I cannot understand."  
  
A soft smile appeared on the King's face, and he signaled the army to stand still and wait. "Keep your hands off your hilts. This is not the sound of an enemy," he said, resting his hands upon the horse's saddle, and expecting a small group of archers on foot to appear suddenly from behind the trees. What came next startled him as much as everyone else in his group.  
  
The sound of pounding hoofs was heard only feet away from their position, and in an instant, many flashes of metal and leather emerged, apparently from the depths of the forest soil.  
  
Before they could conceive another thought, Aragorn and his closest were tightly surrounded by a group of silent riders holding long bows, which were fitted with thick combat arrows, and steadily pointed towards the heads of all the Gondorian leaders.  
  
"Be still!" shouted the King, more preoccupied by his men's reaction than the dark arrow sharply aimed towards the small area between his eyes. He examined the unnaturally swift riders, wondering how they had managed to take them by surprise with such a fine group of warhorses. It was then that he noticed the riders' armors, fixed and elegant, undoubtedly of elven making.  
  
Elven archers on horses? That was a force too intimidating even to imagine.  
  
One of the riders wearing an even more admirable armor came forward, and with a small gesture of his hand, signaled the riders to lower their bows, leaving no doubt that he was the leader of the unusual group. Afterwards, the proud-looking rider nodded towards one of his kinsmen, who blew a low call out of an elven horn.  
  
"I apologize for our unkind welcoming....." came the rider's smooth voice, a voice Aragorn and Arwen did not fail to recognize, "...but we received no fore message of your arrival to our borders." The rider dismounted and bowed. "We salute you, monarchs of Gondor and Arnor," he said, taking of his helmet to reveal his fair face and golden hair.  
  
Aragorn and Arwen dismounted as well. The Queen strode forward and boldly embraced her kinsman and mischief companion from the time she dwelt in Lorien the Fair.  
  
"Rúmil of the Galadhrim!" She shrieked happily, holding the elf's face between her hands. His features were still as fair, but now they held the roughness and earnestness of one burdened with many responsibilities.  
  
"Well met, old friend," Aragorn said, while gripping the elf's forearm brotherly. "It has been long."  
  
Rúmil smiled sincerely. "Our meeting is indeed a joyful occasion," the elven archer said, letting show the smallest hint of excitement. "I am sure the King will be more than pleased to see you both."  
  
"The King?" Aragorn questioned hopefully. "You mean Legolas?"  
  
Rúmil let out a slight sign of mirth. "Yes... that is what his name used to be."  
  
"I am afraid we cannot go all the way to your city to meet... Aramarth just yet. We have other urgent business to deal with prior to that," Arwen intervened, nodding towards the vast, and uneasy-looking group of men behind them.  
  
"That will not be necessary," said Rúmil, quite pleased. "I already summoned him."  
  
"He is near then?" Aragorn asked, anxious to see the one he for so long called his best ally.  
  
"Yes," answered Rúmil, turning suddenly towards the forest. "Behold! He comes."  
  
At the sound of Rúmil's announcement, all of his riders dismounted their steeds at once, with a synchronization and accord only a group of intensely trained elven warriors could attain. Their feet touched the ground in unison, and they pulled their horses to form what could only be described as an entryway for the one coming, two lines of soldiers and steeds facing each other, standing straight and unmoved.  
  
Once again, the sound of the hoofs was not evident to the Gondor group until the horses were extremely near, so the new coming riders seemed to spring out of the ground, or simply appear from behind the trees. It was a group of 20 riders, just as many as the first squad, leaded by an elf clad in gold, black and white, and mounted on a lithe, white horse Aragorn immediately recognized as Arod, the steed once given to Legolas by the Rohirim.  
  
Aragorn heard his wife gasp somewhere near his side, and the reaction became fully comprehensible as the rider over Arod approached to allow a better look. The usually calmed King found himself speechless and awestruck, as the golden rider swiftly came down from Arod's back and began walking towards the group, flanked by the elven soldiers who were bowing their heads and touching their chest as he passed.  
  
For Arwen, time seemed to run both slower and faster than usual as her eyes were fixed upon the warrior coming towards her. To look at this being was both awesome and disquieting; a creature both fair and terrible, grand and overwhelmingly menacing; wearing an armor she instantly recognized from her past life. It was then that she tried to recover poise, realizing this being was no other than Legolas, the woodland archer.  
  
She strived to still the rushed beat of her heart, telling herself that her disproportionate wonder was due to the imposing armor the wood elf was wearing, since it was an heirloom of the High Kings of old. She tried hard to convince her mind of its own folly, blocking out all signs of awe from her outer façade.  
  
"It is only Legolas," she told herself over and over, wishing she had the mind power to close her husband's slightly open mouth from where she stood.  
  
"It is only Legolas..." she insisted, less convinced as seconds passed by and the said elf approached, making her wonder how the eminent armor made the slender archer look even taller, and his shoulders broader. The Queen's eyes sought even for a hint of her husband's earthy and simple friend underneath the shining helm, but it only allowed the sight of his strong jawbone and thin lips.  
  
The elven King seemed to have read the Evenstar's silent request, and he lifted his hands to remove the said helm as he walked. The Queen held her breath, expecting to see the clear eyes and plain, honest smile she remembered; but what the helm revealed weakened her knees with the realization and grief that the Legolas she had known was dead.  
  
Aramarth's head was uncovered, and his bright hair, released from its bonds, gleamed with pale golden upon his shoulders. Beautiful he was, more than ever before, but his face was not uncomplicated any more, his lips held no smile, his eyes held no innocence nor joy.  
  
Arwen felt stabbed across her heart while contemplating his face. his eyes. She expected warmth, simplicity, ingenuousness; but nothing could be found. His expression was sharp as steel-blade, endowed with the arrogance of the sun; his eyes even as they were brightest, were also cold and hard as a vast sea, so dissimilar to the curious stare he used to carry. No longer could he be conceived as young; he now seemed extremely wise, grave, and even sorrow-laden by the cares, pains and strives of many ages of watching over the world.  
  
How could it be? How could one's nature change so much in such small a time? These and other questions assailed the Queen before she could realize Aramarth was already only inches away from her. To have him so near was overwhelming, even exhilarating and draining at the same time. Never before had she felt a presence so strong, so imposing; not even those of the Lord and Lady of Lorien, or any other elven nobles she had acquainted in her long years had a remotely akin effect on her.  
  
She was besieged with the sudden urge to kneel before the King of her people, to pay homage to her newly found lord; and knew that the bearing of her loyalty would never be the same, feeling more elven in his presence than ever before when she had dwelt among her people. It was the clear and ringing voice of Aramarth speaking the beautiful language of the firstborn that kept her from bowing to the ground.  
  
"Elessar Telcontar! Nae saian luume; cormamin lindua ele lle." [It has been too long; my heart sings to see thee.]  
  
Aragorn tried to overcome his stupefaction. "Yallume, Legolas! Oio naa elealla alasse," [At last, Legolas! Ever is thy sight a joy,] he said joyfully, though he cursed his tongue for using such a plain name on such as the one standing before him.  
  
"Amin hiraetha. Aramarth," [I am sorry... Aramarth,] Aragorn apologized. "Amin naa tualle," [I am your servant,] he said bowing down, but the strong grip of a hand upon his shoulder straightened him to look into his eyes.  
  
"Aragorn! Do not bow before me, and cease your apologies. You can call me whatever you like, and should be embracing me as a brother," Aramarth said with the slightest of smiles.  
  
The sorrow that had beset the heart of the Evenstar upon seeing Legolas's transformation started to fade away as she beheld the two kings clasping each other's shoulders and patting backs cordially. She realized that though she grieved the loss of the earthy Mirkwood archer, she was now looking at the rise of an extraordinary individual, capable of majesty no longer found amid the mortal circles of Arda; but from the few words she heard him exchange with her awestruck husband, she knew he was also capable of the great compassion and kindness that only well-placed power and wisdom give. A wave of warmth came to her soul, and she determined herself to rejoice in the very dawn of the King of the Elves.  
  
Such thoughts filled her mind when Aramarth turned his attention from Elessar to her. "Amin elea vanimle sila tiri, arwenamin Undomiel." [I see your beauty shines bright, my lady Evenstar.]  
  
Innocent coyness arose from the depths of Arwen's soul upon hearing his words towards her, and feeling his bright eyes upon her face. She tried her best not to let the exhilarating tension he caused on her show, and gathered herself to answer his salutation.  
  
"Aaye, Aramarth! Beleger, heru en amin," [Hail, Aramarth! Mighty one, lord of mine,] she said demurely in barely audible whispers, while trying to stop her eyes from averting from his intent gaze, finding impossible to steadily look into his eyes.  
  
The elven King bowed his head before her. "Amin vanima Tari," (My beautiful Queen,) he spoke softly, exuding reverence towards her. "Long have been the days since I last saw you. Would you care to bestow your servant with the touch of your blessed hand upon my face?"  
  
Arwen hesitated for the slightest of moments, feeling that a mystic bolt of lightning would strike her if she dared touch him. She tentatively reached out her alabaster hand to his face, but no lighting came as her fingers touched the smooth warmth of his skin, although the beating of her heart hastened its pace once again while his hand covered her own, urging her to press her palm against him fuller; and Legolas, with eyes closed, reached out to touch her blushed cheek, completing the familiar salutation they had so many times shared.  
  
It was at that moment that all shyness, awkwardness and qualms slipped from Arwen's mind and heart, and she understood what this new King meant to her: a lifetime ally, and a vessel for her trust. From that moment and on, not only would her loyalty be by his side, she also felt the silent promise of his unreserved allegiance being pledged to her. From such a powerful friend, it was a promise comforting to have, a solace for the constant concerns that had haunted her lately.  
  
She smiled fully to him while her hand dropped from his face, now able to look into his eyes, freed from all reserves.  
  
"We understand each other then?" Aramarth asked with solemn, hopeful eyes, and Arwen became aware that the unspoken trust exchange had been anything but unintended.  
  
"Yes, we understand each other," she answered content, reaching her hand to hold Aragorn's, who stared at them in curious unawareness of what had just taken place between his wife and his friend.  
  
"Very well then," Legolas said slowly. "Now allow me to unload a heavy burden from my heart." The elf's face turned stern, giving the word a new meaning, as a dismal shadow seemed to fall upon his features. "I have carried this with me for too long."  
  
"Speak, friend," Aragorn said, worried by the elf's somber face.  
  
"I was given the liability of delivering bequest to Lady Arwen, from Lord Elrond at the Gray Havens."  
  
Arwen braced herself, holding back the pain that stabbed her from inside. "Word from father was already given to me by the Periannath."  
  
Legolas's once hard eyes settled on hers, now bearing great sadness and commiseration, but unyielding resolution as well. "I bring you much more than words."  
  
..........................................  
  
AUTHOR NOTE  
  
Forgive me if the elvish used in this chapter is inaccurate. I am still learning.  
  
At last, the much-awaited King of Elves makes his appearance. Was that too ostentatious? Well he is ostentatious; at least in this fic, so get use to it.  
  
Next chapter, Aramarth gives Arwen whatever Elrond sent to her. It will probably be a very emotional moment, so brace yourselves. Also, we'll learn more about Neithan, and some action will take place as well.  
  
Stay tuned, and come on! Leave a review; don't you think I deserve one after such a long chapter? I hope you do.  
  
Cheers.  
  
Elwe 


	7. Stirring Shadows

CHAPTER 6

STIRRING SHADOWS

"Please!" Arwen said, trying to conceal her anguish. "I do not wish to hear anything else on this matter. It is nothing but hurtful to me."

Aramarth placed a hand upon his chest. "I swear to you, my lady, that your heart will find the consolation you seek for."

"Consolation!" exclaimed the Queen in a sharp gasp, as if aggravated by the very word. "How can I find consolation in this lands? What could you possibly give me that could ease the pain of my father's parting?" Now her voice was becoming harsh, even daring, towards the King of Elves.

Legolas took a step forward, his resolution unhesitant regardless of the Queen's outburst; but she pulled back wearing the face of a cornered creature, just before her soul began pouring out all its aches that manifested in heartfelt words that made even the roughest of the soldiers lower their heads in deep grief and commiseration.     

"What's left to be known or shared between me and my father? He left; gone, like the light of the sun leaves the horizon of an autumn dusk, depriving the parchment of the vivid colors it once had, making it gray and dull. He left; with no word, no farewell; so fleeting and withdrawn that I could not walk with him to his meeting with twilight."

Aragorn had the irresistible urge to hold her, to try and give her some comfort; yet he faltered, deeming impossible for such thing to be accomplished by him. It was then that Aramarth held Arwen carefully yet firmly from her wrists. 

"He was bound to depart…" Aramarth said, "As a river is bound to run towards the sea. There was no turning back."   

"Don't you see I know that already?" Arwen said, her voice failing into sobs, struggling to be freed from the Elf's grasp. "Do you think I reproach him for leaving? Do you think that is what torments me? Nay, I have no right, and that is not what I mourn for."

"Then what do you mourn for, my lady?" Aramarth said, his grip on her unrelenting.

Tears trickled freely down her face as she answered, her struggle against his hands beginning to fade. "I never had the chance to say I was sorry. I don't know if he misses me. I don't know if he ever forgave me. All I have left from Adar is his absence, and the certainty that he will never come back. What is worst of all, I can no longer remember his smile or his voice." 

At this point, her voice deserted her, and all she could do was look away and hide the pain on her face. An overwhelming quietness covered the crowded woodland; words abandoned even the most eloquent, men or elves. All looked upon the Elven King, their eyes advising him to abandon his foolishness for there was no way to relieve such pain.

However, the elf once called Legolas looked upon the Queen, his face was contrite, but his eyes were shinning with hope. For he knew, that all the answers to the Queen's pains were strong and certain, kept zealously inside of him.

"I understand, Undomiel," he said softly, barely a whisper to men's ears. "But can't you feel the change coming to your life right this moment?" 

Slowly, ever so slowly he began pulling her to his chest, gathering her in his arms; and amazingly enough, there was no resistance this time.

"Can't you feel Lord Elrond's soul reaching out to you, from another side of time? He comes to break the walls of your silence, to lift up the shadows from your mind. Behold! It won't be me but him, the one that will place back the missing moments between father and child. He will fill the mysteries of emptiness that yesterday left in your life."

The Queen's sobs ceased, yet her tears were irrepressible; but the tears came not from pain, not anymore. She clung to the armor Aramarth so well wore, the war-attire of Gil-Galad, last High King of the Noldor; the hard metal felt peculiarly warm and homely. She was speechless, wishing only to know more, to receive with wide-open arms whatever her father had sent her way. 

She heard words being whispered just above her ear, the voice deep, wise and loving. "To know you are happy is my only desire. Quit mourning as if I'd left you an orphan."

Only then did Arwen remember the voice of her father, for it was the very voice she was hearing. Harder did her arms clutch the breastplate of Aramarth, holding on to a miracle she never though possible. 

The whispers continued, only for her ears. "You are not alone, my beloved child. Never will you walk this world without my protection and my love. I leave you my herald, the one that will keep you from all harm and pain, as a compensation for my shy disappearance. Know that I left with no resentment against you, and what I did, I did with great pain, only because it was my duty. My love for you remains unchanged and ever-growing, as it will be for the long days of eternity and beyond, and I will not dare let it languish."

The voice changed; turning back to the clear, smooth tone that surely belonged to Aramarth, as he slowly pushed Arwen back within the reach and distance of his arms for her to look at his face. He appeared exhausted, yet freed from too great a burden, peaceful at last.

"Look upon the one that holds you now when the tribulation becomes too great for you and the mortal world to fight against. Trust him, for he has been carefully primed by many to meet his appointed task." Aramarth let out a long sigh of relief. "Those were Lord Elrond's final words to you." 

The Elven King looked at the Queen before him, his eyes proud of the new strength he saw in her. No longer would she mourn or doubt, for at last she had found her peacefulness, and from that moment and onward, she would look to the future, instead of the past.

He gathered her in his arms once more, a gesture of victory over grief, and she complied gladly, feeling safe and homely when surrounded by her newly found protector. It was at that moment, having her so near, that the elf Legolas felt the quiet heartbeat inside of her body, the fragile light growing in her. 

He jolted back, as if suddenly realizing something, and startling the Queen in his arms. He stared down on her body with wide-open eyes, a soft smile forming slowly on his lips and widening to a full grin. 

"I believe congratulations are in order!" Aramarth half-exclaimed, stepping back from the Queen.

"My lord?" Arwen inquired, perplexed by his odd behavior.

"You do not know yet?" Aramarth said sounding rather affronted. "Mortal life has numbed your Elven senses in more than a little extent."   

"I would appreciate if you are to speak your thoughts clearly, so I may understand," Arwen said. Now it was her the one upset by his ambiguous behavior and words.

"Very well then, I shall be the herald of such joy!" Aramarth said, amused by her short temper, and Arwen could swear she saw the mischief of Legolas's gaze deep within the temperance of the Elven King's eyes. He then kneeled before her, his hand to his heart.

"Blessed be the heir to the throne of Gondor! All hail the coming firstborn of Elessar Telcontar!"

It took a few seconds for the Queen to realize the meaning of his declaration; then her eyes grew wide, and both her hands flew to her slender abdomen. Could such happiness be true?

It took a little longer for Aragorn to understand, but when he did, he felt as if the light of a thousand suns warmed his heart. He rushed to his wife's side, covering her slender hands with his own, trying to feel the life inside of her.

"A child?" he breathed, still unable to believe.

"A son," Aramarth answered, rising from his knees. "The lad grows strong inside our Queen." 

Then, a foresight came to the Elven King. "He shall surpass you both in wisdom and majesty; he shall be the completion of all the hopes of the last age. Eldarion you will call him, for he is a descendant of the Eldar, carrier of the last blood of my people…"

The elf's face darkened, and he spoke words only for the King and Queen to understand. "But… beware; for his rise is uncertain." Aramarth's eyes looked from side to side in confusion, and then cringed as in pain when another wave of foreword came to him. 

"_This generation must strive and sacrifice much for your son's kingdom to come to be. Upon a foundation of spilled blood and much death will his survival be established; lower your guard but a little and his life will be forfeit."_

The words came to him as daggers of doom, but he dared not to utter them, so the King and Queen of Gondor never heard them.

"Legolas?" Arwen questioned, sensing his distress. "Do you have more words for our son?"

"No, no, my lady," he lied. "It has all become blurred in my mind. I still haven't totally mastered forethoughts… it is not yet natural to me." He finished with a strained smile. Arwen was not satisfied by his response, but dared not to press him. The joy in her heart was too much as for to mar it with a confrontation.   

Aramarth turned from them, still trying to wave away the terrible shadows that had fallen upon him. He raised his voice for both armies to listen. "Men, Soldiers of Gondor, are you not going to cheer for the announcement of your future King? And sons of Eldar, will you not rejoice in the continuance of our kin in these lands?"

At once the crowd burst into cheers, praises and hails. The wisest ones prayed for the royal couple and their offspring, but the most just shouted in joy. 

As the roar of the multitude's celebration arose within the forest, deafening than any other sound, Aramarth's eyes came to rest upon a man on horse among the chanting soldiers. The man did not cheer, nor prayed, nor sung; his face was cold and emotionless as a stone; his gray, fiery eyes were fixed without blink upon the King and Queen of Gondor.

Looming shadows stirred violently within the Elven King at the sight of this man. His pupils grew dark, his breathing quickened, and yet the beating of his heart became unnaturally slow. All sound and movement faded from around Aramarth's senses, all his eyes cared about was this strange man and his mystery. For endless seconds did he stared at him without a blink, not really knowing what to make of him or how to feel.

But then the man turned his head towards the Elf, and finally their eyes met. Clear blue clashed with dark gray, further increasing the confusion in Aramarth's mind, for the proud King felt both threat and reverence in the mere presence of the very young man. The elf began walking towards the young rider, wishing only to know more about him, but then a prominent form came walking from the midst of the army, still chanting his praise to Elessar's new heir, yet his arms were raised, quieting down the soldiers around.

"King Aramarth!" came the smooth, yet persuasive voice of the army's general, hindering the Elf's advance towards the young man. Legolas stopped to meet the one saluting him, his mind still half-focused in the strong presence only steps away, and also half-wondering whom the obnoxious man calling for him was.

"Finally the Elves of Ithilien decide to offer their allegiance to Gondor," the General said sounding rather overconfident and self-justified. "It was about time for you to assert your loyalty to the realm that harbors you and gives you the land where you dwell."

Aragorn came rushing to the little exchange, already cursing Hadathor under his breath for the arrogant and disrespectful way in which he spoke to the King of all Elves. Right when Aragorn was about to reprehend the General, Aramarth turned to him, showing his broad back to the insolent General of Gondor.

"Who is this man?" Aramarth asked, rather annoyed. "He speaks to me as if I owed something to him or his cause."  
"Forgive him, Legolas, he knows not what he speaks of. This is Hadathor, high General of the Armies of Gondor," Aragorn said, his eyes shooting daggers at the arrogant man.

"Pardon me, my liege, but in this times of war, one would expect the ones considered as allies to show their support to the great kingdom, specially if they are refugees in lands once under the rule of Gondor-"

"Hadathor!" shouted Aragorn, in the brink of losing his temper, but Aramarth signaled him to be at peace, for he would deal with the matter himself. Turning to face the boastful soldier, he left him no choice but to recoil before his presence.

"General Hadathor," the Elf began, his voice unruffled yet moreover unyielding. "Let us speak plain and to the purpose, like honest men and soldiers. Let us leave fancy speech to noble men and counselors, and allow me to clarify a matter or two.

"First of all, Ithilien is a sovereign realm with no dependence from Gondor. Second of all, my country's allegiance to Gondor is not to be doubted, for my loyalty to your King is well above political affairs. And third of all, you and your country should have not fret and rush here as if in danger, for your southern border is under the protection of my people. There was no need of such display."

"Your… lacking group of riders cannot face the horde of thousands under Brodda's command. War is upon us all!" Hadathor said, coming up dangerously close to Aramarth's face. But his insolent advance was quickly prevented, as a flash of black and silver, until then unnoticed, blocked the General's path. 

Hadathor froze in place and looked down on white, bare and sharp fangs being displayed for his eyes, as a low yet menacing growl came from the powerful neck of a full-size woodland wolf that stared at him without a blink; the round, amber eyes fixed at the General's own. 

"Get this beast away from me!" squealed the General, all but losing his pomposity. 

Aramarth smiled to himself. "That beast rarely fails when it comes to judging strangers"  
"We shall see," Aragorn said, striding to the menacing brute, fascinated by the wolf's size and power, for the animal's back came almost to the height of the King's hip. He looked to Legolas, seeking his approval, and then extended his hand to the animal's snout. The wolf cautiously sniffed the offered fist, deviating his attention from the panicked general; then the creature sat before the King of Gondor and bowed its great head as if in recognition, while Hadathor slowly backed away from the whole scene.

"This is Mithgor, the Gray Dread," Legolas said, fingering the shiny, gray pelt of its neck. "One of my most clever and loyal friends; strong as well, for I've seen him haul a slaughtered wild stag; and his legs can outrun the fastest of horses."

Arwen came closer, fascinated by the animal as well, while Aramarth continued the earnest introduction of his friend. "I bred him since the beginning of his life. From the very womb of his mother did my hands brought him into the world, a little more than three winters ago. Ever since, he is always by my side, whether in moments of danger or peace."  

The Elven King's eyes then strayed towards the spot where Arwen stood still in awe of the beast. "Mithgor! Will you not greet your Queen?" he said, nodding towards Arwen.

The wolf stood at once, as if he had been prepared for that moment since it was born. It walked straight towards the Queen, stopped and stood before her, examining her with its glowing amber eyes. Then, for Arwen's astonished amusement, the once menacing big, bad wolf let out a loud yet playful bark, and its huge body dropped down as it laid flat on its back, stretching its limbs teasingly.

Arwen could not stifle a giggle, since the wolf seemed to be smiling at her as it gawked at her from its upside-down position, pressed against the forest soil; a big, toothy smile with its pink tongue dangling from the side.   

"Aren't you the cutest?" Arwen asked, kneeling to rub the wolf's snow-like chest with the back of her fist.

Aramarth looked at Aragorn smugly. "What did I tell you about his judgment of strangers?"

"I have no words, my friend. He seemed to transform from a vicious assassin to the Queen's personal pet!"

"His heart accords with mine, that's all," Legolas said, offering his own wide grin to the Queen.

"By the way," Aragorn intervened, "there is someone I would like you to meet as well." He signaled the mysterious young man on horse to come forward. 

Aramarth's smile faded from his face and his entire body tensed as the man dismounted and strode forward to meet them. The Elf's eyes fastened upon the approaching man, carefully analyzing every single movement and feature, readying himself to face whatever it was that came his way.

His eyes told him he was a tall man, his body lithe and well-muscled, and carried himself with all the grace and poise of an Elf. Each motion was stylishly and carefully executed with apparently the greatest of ease. His face had the beauty and symmetry of the Eldar people; beauty marred only by a scar over his lip, and made disturbing by the coldness in his eyes. All this confirmed that there was more to this man than what the apparent youth and ragged clothes told.

Legolas's insides stirred even more viciously as the man neared him. Doubt, fear, vulnerability, admiration, reverence; they all assaulted him at once. He felt his hand instinctively reaching to the sword on his side, his fingers closing hesitantly upon the silver hilt while his ears paid no heed to Aragorn's proud voice as he began introducing the man.

The Elven King clenched his jaw, as his mind struggled with the undeniable instinct to eliminate this seemingly new and strange threat. His whole being screamed to him, that this could not be anything else than an enemy. And yet, from the strayed words coming from Aragorn's mouth, only a few reached Aramarth's ears, but they were more than enough to still his eagerly lethal hand.

"… he snatched her from the cold grip of death; he saved Arwen's life."

Aramarth's eyes found Aragorn's as he said those last words, and the gratitude they showed towards the young stranger snapped the Elven King out of his apprehension trance. He turned to the man, already looking at him in a completely different way. 

"With no regard for his own life, he gave life back to my beloved. His name is Neithan, and I owe him everything I could ever posses," Aragorn concluded, sliding an arm over the Queen's shoulder, drawing her near to his side.

Slowly, the Elven King made his way towards the young man, until they stood only inches away from each other. 

"Neithan," he said, his eyes scrutinizing the angular features. "The wronged one, it means. That is a name I've only heard once in my life, lost in the shadows of history in an age long gone."

Neithan froze, yet neither his stance nor his face revealed the hesitation that the fiery eyes of the Elven King caused in him. He felt exposed, completely deciphered under the blue fire of Aramarth's piercing gaze. There was a long minute of tension between the two, which was at last broken by the Elf's voice

"I shall not question you or your name, young Neithan," Legolas said, placing a hand over the man's tall shoulder. "For your deeds precede you, and I… can only thank you for your courage."

Legolas brushed away all doubts and gut-feelings he had about the man, for if he had indeed saved the Evenstar's life, he deserved nothing more than trust and thankfulness. 

"I thank you, Master Elf. I shall not take your trust lightly, but cherish it for life."

The Elf smiled briefly, pleased both by the wise words and the measured and polite tone of Neithan's voice. Still, in the deepest of his soul stirred a warning, but he paid no heed to it, not anymore. Even in all his preparation and wisdom, he had also fallen under the charm of the mysterious young man.

…………………………………………………………………………………………  

There you go. At last I am back, with a chapter I am not entirely happy with. Boy! I think I've lost my muse. But hey, at least I finished it.

It wasn't easy at all to pick up the story again, after so much time away from it. So if you find any discord or mistake, please review and let me know about it.

Remember, I promised to finish this story and I will do so. Just don't give up on me.

Thanks.

Elwe

**

I would like to use this space to give thanks to my editor and the greatest of my supporters, Precious Jewelle. BIG HUG!


	8. Conspiring

CHAPTER 7  
  
CONSPIRING  
  
Both groups laid their troubles and burdens down for the rest of that day. Gondor's army lifted up camp, while the sovereigns spent their time together, doing what can be only considered as "catching up" with each other, and forgetting but for a while about the duties on their shoulders. They filled up their water skins in a sweet, singing stream revealed by the tracking skills of Rúmil the Galadhrim, and sat on a small, emerald green grassland near the stream's bank to chat about shared memories and simpler times, about old friends and their whereabouts.  
  
Aragorn was saddened to discover that his elven friend had no longer communication with Gimli Elf-friend, though he was well informed of the dwarf's dwelling in Aglarond, down to details such as how many battling axes he could summon in a day's time. Apparently, Ithilien's scouts had spread all over Middle Earth, unnoticed as they could be, and kept Aramarth well informed about every important matter taking place as far as Buckland.  
  
By the late afternoon, however, their minds and concerns came back to the current conflict with the Easterlings, mostly because of Hadathor's constant lobbying.  
  
.............................................................................................................  
  
Hadathor exposed his position of attacking first and asking questions afterwards, deeming that Brodda's display was a direct challenge to the Kingdom. Meanwhile, Aragorn replied that he had not come to wage war but to clarify things with the Eastern Ruler, and that the strength of arms would be used only if conversations proved any intentions from them to violate the sovereignty of either Gondor or Ithilien.  
  
While the King and General were engaged in this discussion, Aramarth sat on a nearby log, barely listening to them, concentrating more in smoothing the soft fur on Mithgor's ears. The wolf was, as always, seated by his side, the massive head rested on the elven King's lap.  
  
As if bothered by the elven King's peacefulness, and of the sudden, Hadathor came near them, earning a low growl from the always-watchful beast.  
  
"Still!" came the immediate command of the Elf to his friend, and Mithgor lowered to the ground, barely containing himself. Legolas then stood, and reluctantly joined the discussion circle.  
  
"We would like to know your position on this matter... your majesty," Hadathor said, sarcasm obvious in every syllable spoken.  
  
"Position? Why should I have a position?" The elf's words earned a couple of frowns from those gathered.  
  
Aragorn hesitated a bit before carefully answering, "Well, friend, your opinion would be greatly appreciated; it's your land and safety as well."  
  
Aramarth smiled sincerely at Aragorn's politeness and respectfulness, and yet his response baffled the attending even more. "My people's lands are not at stake here," he said coolly, without a bit of concern showing in his voice. "I don't see why the big commotion."  
  
"Commotion?! Thousands of barbaric hordes are at this moment gathered at YOUR borders, and you disdain Gondor's council? Your elders had to be drunk when they ordained you, you..."  
  
"Hadathor!" shouted Aragorn, fearing Aramarth was going to gracefully slice off the head of the outraged General for his outburst. And yet, the elf's face remained impassive, his lips curved in a slight, yet smug smile. The ability of the elven King to retain composure was uncanny, most likely well taught by the always-serene Celeborn of Lorien.  
  
"I apologize for this, Aramarth, but I think this matter should not be taken so lightly," Aragorn said, while gently but firmly, he pulled Hadathor by his shoulder, signaling him to step back.  
  
The General struggled against his king's grip, blinded by his own pride, and enraged beyond himself by the unnatural serenity of the Elf. "Will you not give your support to Gondor then?" he bellowed, his face twisted with anger. "Will you not stand with Elessar in this war?!"  
  
"What war?" answered the Elf, as calm as a spring breeze. "Brodda will not dare cross the River Poros; if he does not cross the border, then there is no reason for war."  
  
Aragorn forcefully pulled Hadathor back and behind him, ordering him to stay still with the mere authority of his bright gray eyes. Yet then, the king approached Legolas determinedly. "And what if he does?" he said with soft voice, his mere presence commanding obedience and respect. He would not be weighted down or distraught by the elven King's presence, for he was a great king as well.  
  
Aramarth's face changed at once, smugness whipped away from his face, and replaced by a cold, hard expression that spoke volumes about his seriousness about the matter. "If Brodda dares crossing the river, he will be fought and forced back by my very arm. He will never advance more than a few paces inside Ithilien; he will never go within 50 leagues of Minas Tirith."  
  
The elven King's hand came to rest upon Aragorn's troubled shoulder. "You need not to worry about this, friend," he said, his tone as secure and comforting as that of a father chasing away a child's imaginary ghouls. "My scouts are constantly watching over Brodda's every movement, ever since he started his advance. I've measured his army's strength, and my swords and bows are good enough to stop him. The moment he sets one foot on this land, he will be driven away." Aragorn looked up the Elf's eyes, knowing for a fact that every word just said was as true as the existence of the moon and the stars.  
  
"But let us not argue about this any more," Aramarth said, looking around to the ones gathered there; his eyes lingering for a moment in the dark, brooding shape of Neithan, who stood only steps away from the circle, listening to every word said. "Let us be wise and do something everybody will be satisfied with, for I tire with all this quarrelling. It is senseless to me."  
  
Everybody stood still and silent, anxiously waiting for the Elf's proposition; those who did not know him expected the unpredicted and another outrage.  
  
"I will not wage war," Legolas began, his eyes fixed upon the blood-lustful General of Gondor. "My people will not charge into a battle unless it is absolutely needed. If Gondor decides to strike before the time and without a reason, Ithilien will not carry injustice by supporting such deed. However, if the brother realm of Gondor sees it proper, I and the riders that stand with me here, will swiftly go to meet the Emperor, and will question him of his intentions. In the meantime, you have my permission to keep on advancing to the south. Then, my riders will race back to meet you with word of what's to come. That will save you a couple of days of anxiety. Agreed?"  
  
"An excellent scheme," Aragorn said, after brief consideration. "I wish this to be solved as soon as possible, and by dialogue, not violence. Your decision sounds as wise as it can be, and I'm sure you have enough power in your words as to dissuade this Brodda."  
  
Hadathor could do nothing but wish he could bite into his own fist; but he was forced to remain silent, keeping his wiles and retorts to himself; powerless and tongue-tied by the kings' mutual agreement.  
  
Aramarth turned around, instantly disregarding the whole matter. "Then come, forget about this. You gain nothing by fretting before due time. Instead let us enjoy this meeting. Your lovely wife appears to be awfully bored and lonely. And I, for one, will not bear such thing to go on for one more minute." With that, the elf left the circle and strode swiftly towards the distant shape of Arwen, who had walked away from the debate, and was contemplating the growing shadows of the last lights of the day that appeared to wake twice the life and sounds inside the forest.  
  
"You look just the same as the first time I saw you," the elf said to the thoughtful Queen, who was seated on soft grass, rested against a sturdy tree, not at all bored but delighted in the shrill crescendo of voices from crickets, frogs and cicadas that marked the fickle triumph of darkness.  
  
Arwen smiled candidly at his arrival, and the smile deepened still when she saw how closely Mithgor had followed him, such a loyal shadow. Legolas seated beside her, close enough so she could feel the warmth of his body, but not enough for an incidental touch between the two. She regarded him silently, while Mithgor found a comfortable spot for a short nap. For Arwen's amusement, the wolf came to slouch next to her instead of his master.  
  
No word passed between them for several minutes, since they both settled with basking in each other's mere presence. The minutes were becoming precious for them both, until it was the elven King who broke the growing spell with a soft whisper, intended only for her ears. "Do you remember the first time we met?"  
  
She closed her eyes, allowing the return of the memories that seemed long gone to her now, yet for an elf were not at all distant. "Of course, but it was dawn then, not dusk."  
  
"I must say, evening suits you even better." His eyes became spellbound to the silhouette of her face against the light of the just-rising moon. Even though her eyes were shut, Arwen felt the warm tinge of the elven King's eyes rapt onto her, finding herself enjoying his utter attention, as she had enjoyed it the first time they had met. So much had changed since then. They both had changed, and the whole world had changed; but she was glad that the flattering feelings he evoked with his mere gaze onto her had remained the same.  
  
A slight sway of Mithgor's attentive ears snapped Aramarth out of his enthralled reverie, and he turned his head to see Aragorn approaching them. "Finally, you decide to come join our much more pleasant gathering here, Elessar," Aramarth said, welcoming the man into the mystic moment he was sharing with the Evenstar. Arwen opened her eyes at last, greeting her beloved as well.  
  
"Are you feeling better?" Aragorn asked, eyeing her with adoration.  
  
"Yes. Now that I know the motive of my discomforts, they seem to be fading to joy," she answered, gently rubbing over her own belly. "Now that I am aware of his existence, I can feel it with every fiber of my soul. I can't believe I did not feel it before."  
  
Aragorn seated on the mossy ground before her, cradling her legs upon his lap. He started caressing over her navel as well, his large hand joining her delicate one in the symbolic caress to the fruit of their love. "All I want is for him to be born amid peace and joy. I wish I would be able to give all of my time to him... and to you."  
  
Aramarth stood up quickly, suddenly finding himself one too many in the small forest refuge Arwen had created with her mere presence. And yet he was peculiarly happy, for he had been able to share it with her at least for a while.  
  
"You will leave us now?" Aragorn asked. "You are more than welcome to stay with us for a time."  
  
"No, I will go off to wander the forest, to talk to the trees and find my peace in the loud quietness of the night," the elf said, a tinge of loneliness in his voice. Mithgor stood to follow him, but a single glance from his master told him otherwise, and the wolf settled next to the royal couple again; he would guard them for the night.  
  
Aramarth smiled at the obedient beast wistfully, knowing that no harm would come near the King and Queen while his most loyal and strong vassal was watching over them. He then turned to leave.  
  
"Legolas?" came the soft call of the Queen, stopping him at once.  
  
"Mi lady," he answered, without even turning to face her.  
  
"Goodnight, and thank you... for everything."  
  
"Goodnight; and be at peace, both of you. I will see that Aragorn's wish is fulfilled; this I pledge to you." And with that, he disappeared into the night, leaving the royal couple in their much-deserved privacy, feeling safe, warm and buoyant about their future.  
  
...........................................................................................................  
  
He looked up at the strong branches of a mighty oak. The walk through the forest had been long and refreshing, and now all he wanted was a place to settle and spend what was left of the night. The treetop was perfect, secluded and a natural watch post from where he could keep an eye on the encampment.  
  
After asking for the proper consent from his brother tree, he climbed its robust trunk, and up to the lofty branches. Quick and nimble he was of course, but rather noisy as well, he thought, for he was still fully armored. But once he settled upon the base of a branch, fondly remembering how he used to spend many a night in such fashion when he was back in Greenwood, he became completely undetectable, soundless and invisible in the midst of the thick foliage.  
  
The elven King felt weary in more than one way, but he did not need sleep, nor did he allow the lull of elven dreams to coax him. In truth, he could go entire months without rest, and not only because he chose to, but because a growing unease had settled in his chest of late. He could never afford to lower his guard now, much less that night when he felt it nearer and stronger than ever.  
  
So when a twig snapped some distance below from his watch post, his archer's eyes found their mark and settled on the peace-disturber at once. In the long shadows of the night, it took him some time to discern the shape of General Hadathor, alone, silently making his way out of the camp, heading north and into the thick of the forest.  
  
Suspicion rose at once in Aramarth's mind. What business could the Gondor general have so far from camp? Surely he would not venture as far-off for a physical urge, specially when he was still moving away, and now that he was passing right below him, his whole carriage revealed a definite unease about the man and whatever errand he was out to do.  
  
Hmm... aren't we sly tonight? Aramarth thought, his gaze fastened to the general's retreating shadow. He determined he would find out the meaning behind the man's mysterious behavior, already feeling the thrill of a good stalk in his veins. He patiently waited, still perched upon his chosen branch, knowing that he could not just follow the general, and cursing his noisy armor for it. He had to estimate when he was out of the man's earshot to be able to drop to the ground unnoticed, and so eternal minutes went by before he even made a move.  
  
When he thought it safe, he first let his legs hang from the branch; then, he dislodged the rest of his body from said branch, grasping it with his long hands at the end to slow down the fall. Just when he was about to release his grip and finally drop to the ground, the mere whisper of a sound below made his fingers curl back around the limb in an almost convulsive reflex. Breath caught in his chest when he saw a tall and dark shadow, moving hastily across the forest ground, some distance to his left. The elven King hung frozen from the providential branch, stunned by the way this shadow stealthily moved, barely touching the lower foliage, making no actual sound, almost unnatural.  
  
Regardless of himself, Aramarth was filled with fear, and could do nothing but hang limply, unable to move, to breathe or to even think straight. Thick air seemed to surround him, turning his nimble body into a heavy and weary burden. A fine bead of sweat formed upon his noble brow, more from fret than from strain, and his fingers clutched the branch spasmodically, until every muscle of his forearm burned with ache. From his precarious position, he could not tell who or what it was that was moving so near him, and could only hope that "it" would not notice him.  
  
Finally, the shadow disappeared into darkness, heading northeast, and Aramarth dared to draw in a slight breath. Still, he did not let himself fall from the tree, not for a full quarter of an hour; such was the dread this shadow had instigated in him. Something in the back of his mind told him that the hearing of this creature was far sharper than a man's. This thought held his mind as he at last uncurled his numb fingers and hit the ground with a relieved thud. Whatever the shadow was, it did not move like a man, and certainly did not feel like an elf.  
  
His eyes roamed the forest, strong fists clenched so tightly that the veins in his arms started to protrude from his smooth skin. He fought back the many curses menacing to come out from his mouth, still in disbelief. Never had he felt so vulnerable and startled, never had he been caught so unwary. He was tempted to spring out to the darkness and try to find either Hadathor's or the shadow's tracks; but his noble instincts drove him otherwise, and he chose to return to camp, at once calling to double up the sharp-eyed elven guard for the night. He himself spent the rest of the dark hours sword in hand, Gondor's royal quarter never out of his sight.  
  
.............................................................................................  
  
"You are late," spoke a deep, slithering voice from the shadows. Hadathor let out a soft yelp, his bones almost jumping out of his skin from startle.  
  
"Curse you!" he hissed under his breath. "I would appreciate if you'd stop trying to start me to death. I have a weak heart, you know."  
  
A malicious chuckle made the general's skin chill. He had not grown used to the dark one's unsettling presence. "Such uneasiness is only found in men with a very regretful and faulty conscience, Hadathor. Are you starting to have second thoughts about our... deal?"  
  
"No," replied the general, almost too emphatically. "I cannot bear to be under someone else's shadow any longer. Our deed goes to whatever end."  
  
A lengthy, elegant, and dark figure seemed to materialize out of the shadows, as if he himself had been a part of the darkness. "I don't trust you, general; I never have. But I do like the bitterness in your voice; it was your motivation that drove me to seek your alliance."  
  
Hadathor lowered his head, unwilling to look at the bright, frightful eyes he had only once briefly gazed upon. "You choose your allies well, for we want the same things, Morier. But I begin to doubt the infallibility of your plot. The most important step of it remains still unaccomplished, and now it seems more unlikely than ever."  
  
"Yes, the Queen still lives. It is an unfortunate setback to our plan, and a terrible waste of my crafts, I must say. It was not easy to steer her mind as I did," Morier said unworriedly, pacing around the crest-fallen general.  
  
"My patience grows thin, sire," Hadathor retorted, the calmness in his voice more due to fear than reverence. "The wench should have been dead by now. The King should be already blind and witless with grief, his commands easily steered and bent to our will! Now the near-death of the Queen has made everyone much more wary. Every eye is set upon her, guarding her from any harm. And now... this elf King comes forth, showing off his crown and his 'invincible' committee of ridiculous warriors. The watch upon the elf-witch has tripled over, and the elf's dull 'I am too wise' counsel to Elessar is nothing but a hindrance to our goals."  
  
"Stop! Hadathor, your ramble is going to deepen my headache." Morier said with mirth. "Haste not, for our plans are part of a greater plan, one that cannot be stopped by mortal or immortal means. It is destiny; it is inevitable. The turns of events may even be beneficial to our final aim. Do not fear this boastful King of elves; he, too, will be tangled in our web, and will serve his purpose for our gain in due time. Trust me, he won't even know whom he is working for."  
  
Hadathor's face brightened a bit, delighted in the prospect of deceiving and manipulating Aramarth as well as his own King. Then a sudden memory cast a frown upon his features. "And what about the other newcomer? The scruffy drifter? The King has taken quite a fondness for him. If I am supposed to be the one to hold all of Elessar's trust, he should be out of my way. I'll be happy to vanish him, if you find it appropriate."  
  
"Do not even dare to bother, much less touch Neithan. Understand?" Morier's words were spoken in a low, menacing growl, and his long, icy fingers came to painfully clutch the general's shoulder, as if to further stress his warning. Hadathor's breath caught in his throat in a hoarse gasp, and he could do nothing but nod his agreement to Morier's demand.  
  
The dark one gave no explanation for his protectiveness towards the drifter, and Hadathor in his fear did not ask for one. All the general was capable to ask was, "Then, what happens now, my lord?"  
  
"Tomorrow will define everything," Morier responded, finally letting go of the general's bruised shoulder. "The pieces are already in motion, since yester-night. Here is your part in the design, so at the end of the day you will come out a hero, and Elessar's puppet master at last."  
  
The forest was the only witness to the hushed whispers of the new conspiracy being unraveled to the ears of the covetous general of Gondor. Even the trees took a vow of silence, too horrified by the words as to taint their language by repeating them.  
  
.....................................................................................................  
  
When Hadathor walked away from Morier, after all the explaining was done, it was all he could do not to rub his hands together in excitement; marveled as he was by the genius of the Dark one's mastermind. His merry walk was stopped by the same warning voice he had heard earlier.  
  
"Remember, Hadathor: stay clear of Neithan's way," Morier spoke from afar, the steel of his voice enough to drain all joy from the General's countenance.  
  
"Yes, yes; whatever you say, my lord." And with that, the snaky man disappeared into a hasty sprint.  
  
The Dark one turned to see the tall shape coming out from behind a willow tree.  
  
"Is he truly going to come out the hero tomorrow?" asked the tall, young man, coming to kneel before his lord.  
  
A mocking laughter escaped the Dark elf. "Don't be silly, child. Hadathor is but a puppet in the threading of your destiny, a mindless peon, nothing more."  
  
"He called you 'Morier'; my lord, is that your name? You have never told me your name," Neithan said, looking up to the only father he'd ever known.  
  
The Dark elf managed a condescending smile. "No, child. I just needed a name for that jester to know me by. My real name shall not be revealed until the time for wrath and vengeance is accomplished.  
  
"It starts tomorrow, with the death of the Queen, and the rise of spiteful war. And after tomorrow, you will start to gain over the power of Gondor's throne, and if my thoughts come to be as I expect, maybe even Ithilien's crown will start falling under your rule."  
  
Neithan nodded, smile-less unlike his Lord; something akin to nausea stirring inside of him at the thought of Arwen dying.  
  
...........................................................................................  
  
All I can say is sorry, sorry for the extensive delay; it was due to situations completely out of my control. I am back though, and expect to be updating more often.  
  
I hope you enjoyed this chapter; things start to heat up a bit from now and on.  
  
Thanks for reading.  
  
Elwe 


	9. Ambush

CHAPTER 8  
  
AMBUSH  
  
The last stars shivered in a final farewell to the children of Iluvatar below, and dawn broke upon camp in an opus of pale light. Those first lights found Aramarth's brow creased with unease, as the General of Gondor had not returned to camp during the night. Still, his greatest restlessness came from the memory of the sinister presence he had seen in the woods.  
  
Aragorn emerged from his quarters as usual with the first lights of the day, stretching lazily after a good rest. He noticed Aramarth standing nearby, still fully armored, sword tightly held by his side, gaze fastened in his direction. He smiled fondly at the elf and walked towards him.  
  
"Well, somebody had an early beginning today," he greeted cheerfully, earning no response from the Elven King. It was then the man noticed that even when the elf's face was directed to him, his eyes seemed to be lost in deep thought and concern.  
  
"Legolas?"  
  
Aramarth still did not answer, nor did he acknowledge Aragorn's presence in any noticeable way. Suddenly, he turned to his left sharply, and strode fast and single-mindedly towards an unidentified objective. Aragorn, of course, felt necessary to follow the distraught elf.  
  
"Where have you been all night? Why did you leave camp?"  
  
Aragorn could hear the elf's raised voice ahead, questioning someone fervently. Then the object of Aramarth's interrogation was revealed, as Hadathor emerged from the forest, a dead stag perched upon his shoulder.  
  
"I've been hunting," the general answered simply, as if it was the most obvious statement ever to be uttered.  
  
"Hunting?" Aramarth's voice reduced to a mere stifled whisper.  
  
"Yes, hunting. What else could I have been doing?" spat the general, walking past the shocked elf. Then, as he went into the encampment, he kept on talking. "I feel flattered that you worry so much over my hunting trip, 'highness', though I don't see why all the fuss. Every man here knows how much I enjoy night hunts... Well, I suppose not every man knows. Still, I don't see a motive for this paranoid behavior," the general finished, his tone as insolent as he could muster.  
  
Aragorn came to stand next to the Elven King, who was almost shaking with rage and embarrassment. "Is there something the matter?" he asked, placing a comforting hand on the overly tense shoulder.  
  
Aramarth swallowed the heavy clot in his throat, feeling the derision in the eyes of the soldiers around him burning his pride. Even worse, he could sense the doubt in the Elven soldiers who had witnessed his falter. It had been so hard to earn their trust and respect; he could not afford to lose it over a gut feeling.  
  
"Nay, it is nothing," he lied, pushing back inside all urges to tell Aragorn about what he had seen the night before; moreover, he would not lose his friend's respect. "Forgive my outburst." And with the hastily mumbled apology he went off with the excuse of preparing his mount. Aragorn was left only to wonder about the elf's strange behavior; in his heart he knew that his friend was keeping something from him.  
  
Aramarth's hurried retreat was however impeded, for Neithan had taken advantage of the episode with Hadathor and had slipped inside camp without being noticed. As far as anyone could tell, he had slept all night within the encampment.  
  
"Good game, General Hadathor!" the young man said, his smile as undecipherable as ever. "I wish I could stay and help you, but I'm afraid I must bid you all farewell.  
  
"But first, King of the Eldar, I ask for your permission to wander the lands under your rule," Neithan said, bowing slightly before Aramarth. The elf's sharp eyes did not miss the wicked glint in the young man's eyes as he did so; but as wounded in his pride as he was, he risked not misjudging and being found wrong yet again.  
  
"You have it, if such is your wish," he said with no hesitation, and stood to a side while Aragorn's attention was bent completely to Neithan's departure.  
  
"You leave us so soon. Has been our company so displeasing for you?" asked the King, hoping he could convince the man to stay yet for a time.  
  
"Save your guile, dear king; I will not be convinced by it, not this time," Neithan said with mirth, patting Aragorn's arm cordially. "I grow restless among so many, and yearn for my solitude, my free routing. I'm not a social man, nor one to follow the footsteps of another."  
  
"I give up then," Aragorn said, raising his arms to the sky in defeat. "But I vow we will meet once more, good Neithan; save my words, for I feel our paths will converge yet again."  
  
"I will, my king, I will; for now I take your leave," Neithan said, hauling a light bundle of supplies upon his shoulder.  
  
"Neithan, you have my leave, but... will you not ask leave from the Queen as well? I'm sure she would want to bestow a parting blessing upon her savior."  
  
Neithan's heart missed a few beats at the mention of Arwen; still, his stance and face revealed nothing of the turmoil inside of him. "I'm sure she rests now. I wouldn't want to bother her."  
  
"Well, in fact, last night she expressed to me her wishes to go see her fellow elves and the Lady Eowyn at the King's city, with Aramarth's permission, of course," Aragorn said, turning his face to the elf in silent request.  
  
A soft smile appeared in Aramarth's face as he responded. "The city is as hers as it could be called mine. Let her come and go within its safety according to her wishes. I will set up a squad to escort her."  
  
"No, no. I wouldn't want to lessen your troop for it is not numerous as it is, and you are to go face Brodda," Aragorn said confidently. "I will send riders to protect the Queen, and they can catch up with us while we move south. I trust there'll be no danger awaiting her while within your borders."  
  
Aramarth stiffened, his whole being screaming to him, reminding him of the shadow lurking in the forest. "I..."  
  
But he felt a hundred pair of eyes scrutinizing him and the fear of appearing impulsive or mistrustful before his peers again forced him to hold his countenance. "I will send a scout then, as a messenger, to survey the path and announce the arrival of the Queen. She shall be received accordingly."  
  
"Settled it is then," Aragorn said satisfied. Then he turned to the retreating Neithan. "Will you then say your farewells to her, young man? She must be up already, preparing for her journey."  
  
"No, my lord. The Queen must be eager to depart, busy with arrangements; I shall not interrupt her. Besides our paths will converge again, you said it yourself."  
  
"Argh! Very well then; I see I can't succeed in an argument with you, Neithan friend. Go, go now and stay safe."  
  
Aragorn's gaze followed the young man as he disappeared within the foliage, heading south. He wondered where his path would go, what new adventures he would find on the way. He was taken out of his reverie, however, by the voice of the Elven King.  
  
"I take your leave as well, Aragorn. I must get ready for the journey to Poros. My soldiers and I will go to the river to water the horses and clean up before the journey; from there we'll depart. I don't expect to come back to camp or to see you until after I meet with Brodda."  
  
Aragorn sighed, frustrated. "Well, this is an outrage! Will you then be off without the Queen's leave as well? I expected such behavior from Neithan, but from you..."  
  
Aragorn abandoned his pretense scolding as soon as the steely eyes of Aramarth met it and froze it into nothing. "Give the Queen my most affectionate farewell. I'll see you in a few days.  
  
"Finlome! Ride to the city and announce the Evenstar's arrival. Have my housekeeper arrange with Lady Eowyn for a worthy reception." An elf mounted hastily and departed silently eastward, bearing every word of his master as it was uttered.  
  
Aragorn had not the heart to retort or argue with Aramarth's decision, and chose to respect his resolution. "Then I give you my leave, with the best of wishes, King of the Elves. Please be very careful," he said sincerely, his heart wishing to go with him, but his duty forcing him to stay with his vassals.  
  
..........................................................................................................................  
  
The Elven riders departed about an hour afterwards, having cleansed themselves and watered their horses properly in the nearby river. Most of them had not had the opportunity to do so the night before, since they were in full watch all along. They turned south from the river, and headed straight towards the River Poros where the Eastern hordes were stationed. They did not return to Gondor's encampment, but as they began their trot, Aramarth could hear a small company of riders leaving eastward to his city from the encampment, Asfaloth's unmistakable neigh confirming Arwen was among the group.  
  
The elf said a short prayer for her protection and called his riders for a full gallop, Mithgor running steadily at his right flank as he always had. Aramarth side-glanced his trusty companion and noticed the wistful stare of the wolf towards the sound of the departing Gondorim company.  
  
"Mithgor?"  
  
The wolf turned to look at his master, and the once feral eyes revealed an absence and yearn the elf had not noticed before. Aramarth slowed Arod's pace to a trot, and narrowed his eyes to look at his friend reproachfully.  
  
"Oh, not you, too!"  
  
The wolf, almost as if understanding every word, lowered its massive head, fixing the amber eyes to the ground.  
  
"Raise your head, noble beast. I do not blame you," Aramarth said, laughing goodheartedly. "You have fallen under powerful a charm, and I should have seen it coming from the moment you set eyes on magnificence such as hers.  
  
"You wish to go to her?" At this, the wolf's eyes rounded with hope and anticipation.  
  
Aramarth glared at the beast's bluntness. "Hmm... will you then, willfully abandon your master? The one who brought you into the world, the one who cared for you all your life?"  
  
Mithgor let out a soft whimper, out of shame but also exasperation and impatience.  
  
"Such loyalty," Aramarth said with irony. "To think it was once for me and not for the first pretty face that rounded your corner."  
  
Once again, the wolf let out a high-pitched whimper; this time, however, it held a pleading tone.  
  
The elf laughed out loud, spurring Arod to a gallop once again.  
  
"Go! Go to her already!" he shouted while on the run. "And keep her safe till my return!"  
  
No further word was necessary as the wolf turned sharply and took off swiftly to find the newly found Queen of its heart, risking not even a last glance to his still-laughing master.  
  
"That rogue!" muttered the Elven King as he evened his pace with the rest of his group.  
  
Rumil looked at his king and smiled broadly, risking a witty comment. "Feeling forsaken much, my lord?"  
  
"Indeed, dear friends," Aramarth replied, and a grin broadened in his fair face. "But, who can blame the poor thing? I, for one, surely cannot!"  
  
A roar of laughter erupted from the otherwise silent and stoic warriors at their king's occurrence. Never had they heard him jest nor express amusement in such an open way. For them, it was a nice change to have their leader release some of the terrible anxiety they could sense in him day by day. In truth, the King felt much relieved that Mithgor was there to protect Arwen from harm.  
  
But soon enough, they all returned to their usual quietness and awareness, as the King once more had adopted his solemn demeanor, leaving no space for more lightheartedness. For over an hour they rode the south road, quick and silent were the steeds, almost as mute as their masters if it weren't for the sound of their canter on the rock of the pathway and the huffs of their chests.  
  
"Halt!"  
  
The whole company stopped at once at Aramarth's call, for the King had sensed something. They all assumed their well-known defensive position, covering all angles in the event of an attack. But no attack came, only the sound of a breathless man sprinting full speed through the forest, coming towards their left flank.  
  
Aramarth grasped his bow, fitted an arrow and aimed steadily towards the sound, the memory of the shadow in the forest pounding in his head. It was then that the man emerged from the woods and into the road, collapsing to his knees before the Elven riders, completely winded. It was Neithan.  
  
Aramarth dropped his bow and got off Arod, striding hurriedly to the man's side. "Neithan! What has happened to you?"  
  
Neithan's eyes were filled with faith at the sight of the Elven King, but he was still too winded to speak properly.  
  
"Aram...arth...."  
  
He began pointing to the east frantically, signaling futilely to the King.  
  
"I... saw..."  
  
"Calm down, Neithan. Tell me what you saw." The King's apprehension began escalating, given the look of utter fret in the man's face, and because it seemed he had been running full speed for leagues to find help.  
  
Neithan's desperation reached its peak and all he could do was shout out hoarsely, with all of the air he could muster, to form two intelligible words.  
  
"The... Queen!"  
  
Aramarth's blood curled with fright in his veins as he heard the unequivocal confirmation of his worst fears. Grabbing the whizzing man by the shoulders, he spoke as serenely as he could manage.  
  
"Neithan, breathe! I need you to breathe! Tell me what must I do?"  
  
Laudable was the young man's effort to bring words out of his pained chest, fighting against the involuntary spasms that shattered his exhausted lungs and rasped throat.  
  
"Two dozen men on... on foot. Hooded... archers... ambush, going northeast... to the... to the road to your city..."  
  
The Elven King stood as fast as lightning. "Horse! Give this man a horse and a sword at once!"  
  
He hauled Neithan atop the ceded steed and placed a sword on his hands. "Ride hard; tell Aragorn. Go!" the King ordered the shaken man, slapping the horse's rump as he hurried towards his own mount. In a heartbeat the Elven company was galloping northeast through the forest, giving a whole new meaning to the word 'haste'. Out of the corner of his eye, Aramarth saw Neithan on the road, pushing his steed to the limit, as much as he had pushed himself to reach for help.  
  
........................................................................................................................  
  
He wished he had listened to his instincts. He wished the thick forest he loved so much would flatten into bare grassland. More than once he nearly jumped off Arod, feeling he could outrun his trusty steed in his desperation. A myriad of thoughts battered the Elven King while he deftly guided his mount through the tightly lined trees and enmeshing underbrush. He hated Hadathor for triggering his shame; he hated Aragorn for being so confident; but most of all he hated himself for his own pride, feeling the most responsible if the Evenstar was to be endangered.  
  
Over and over again a prayer came out of his lips in trembling, yet hopeful whispers. "Eärendil, oh blessed Mariner of the skies, sail the fair Vingilot into daylight, if only this once and guard your progeny; guard your child from any harm."  
  
Up ahead the forest only thickened, darkening the already murky path, and the sky was veiled with gray haze, almost as if the Powers had turned their faces from the firstborn, revolted by the events taking place underneath Manwe's parchment.  
  
................................................................................................  
  
The heavy burden of twofold failure and guilt pressed down on Neithan as he spurred the steed to go faster. He had disobeyed and betrayed the one he called master, mentor... father. He was never supposed to turn back so soon after pointing the Easterling archers to the Queen's path nor was he to seek the Elf King instead of Elessar.  
  
But he had seen the black fletched arrows, the broad shafts and the sharp tips, knowing that they were to be aimed at the beautiful Queen he had carried in his arms. The memory of her slight weight, of the shape of her delicate body revealed under the drenched clothes, of her perfect face, her eyes, lips and voice; it all came to him fresh and powerful, breaking down all barriers of self control he'd created around his mind.  
  
He could not just stand and let her die, not that day. He ran, against the wishes of his dark master, against everything he had believed and had been taught from his birth. He ran like never before, just to have her enthralling eyes see another dawn.  
  
Then again... perhaps he had failed her as well; perhaps all the power and speed in his limbs had not been enough to save her; perhaps not even the proud elf could be fast or strong enough to save her. How does one know for sure? He had gone to Aramarth because he was everything his master was not. Like day and night they were apart; one bright and noble like the sun; the other dark and furtive like a shadow. He hoped the light of the King could overcome the dark conspiracies of the other, but his hope was small compared to the remorse in his heart.  
  
For the first time in his life, large and bitter tears fell from his eyes, for he knew that whatever the outcome of the day, he would be traitor to his master, to the Kings of men and elves, and the woman he had come to love against his will.  
  
........................................................................................................  
  
The wolf had followed them in secrecy, some steps behind Asfaloth's steady pace and through the underbrush of the forest. None of the guards had seen or heard Mithgor, nor did the horses perceive the muted paws or well- concealed scent. The wolf was well taught, a clever tracker, capable of being undetectable even at such a short range.  
  
The fine ears were alert, the trained nose sentient, and the sharp eyes vigilant; no forest noise or movement escaped the watchful wolf while he protected the Evenstar's rearguard. But it wasn't a noise, a movement or a scent that drove Mithgor to suddenly sprint to the middle of the road at the lead of the group, growling loudly and stopping the horses' race at once. It was pure and pungent instinct, the sense of a powerful evil and threat hovering in the air ahead.  
  
Mithgor turned, growling and barking loud and franticly at the horses, trying to drive the group away from a danger only he could perceive; but the men were foolish, incapable of understanding the beast's urgency to turn back and flee. Why would a Royal Gondorim guard turn and cower from their path? Why would a forest wolf intimidate them? Why would they heed a brutish beast?  
  
The guards held to the reins, forcing their uneasy mounts to stay in place and so signing for their own doom. Senseless fools! They even yelled at the noble animal, shooing and menacing with their long spears, trying to drive it away.  
  
Their attempts however, were soon stopped as a shower of black arrows fell on the group, breaking havoc amongst the Gondorim.  
  
A dozen men and their horses had left the encampment to protect the Evenstar; in a matter of seconds only two pairs remained standing. There was no enemy to be seen, and they carried no shields to defend their selves or the Queen. The arrows flew from both sides of the road, the archers well concealed by the dark forest, while a hollow laughter seemed to hang upon the air as the soldiers fell from their horses, black-fletched arrows deeply embedded in their throats.  
  
Mithgor left the road; quick as lightning he went through the trees and bushes, finding his first kill. The archer had no opportunity against the wolf's rage, and only a stifled grunt left his throat as it was ripped apart in a single movement. The archer's companion was crouching only steps away, and the wolf moved stealthily towards his next victim, bearing the blood-covered fangs, more than ready to deal death, as was his nature. Nothing could hinder his killing frenzy once it had begun, nothing but a piercing scream that came from the road, driving the beast to forget about every inch of his own nature and welfare.  
  
"_Keep her safe till my return!"_ the words thumped in the wolf's ears as he charged in the course of the falling arrows towards the bloodied road.  
  
.........................................................................................................................  
  
Everything became a haze to her senses, blurred and confused; everything around her began moving, spinning, spiraling into ruin. She saw as her defenders fell from their mounts one after another, blood spurts tinting the road in a sickly crimson shade, but her mind was too unclear to trigger her instinct to escape, to survive. It was only rational enough to drive out from her a cry of confusion more than fear.  
  
The men's screams of agony seemed to her far, indistinct and receding, like the distant cry of a flying bird on the horizon. She saw them fall, all of them blind and helpless against their unseen enemies. And like in some sick and cruel game, the Queen was the last left atop her horse, paralyzed by a nameless power that held her in the midst of the corpse-covered road, leaving her an easy target, an easy slay.  
  
Sense came back to her in a wave of realization, now aware that she was about to face death. But she was Arwen Undomiel, Queen of men and elves alike, and she raised her chin, head held high in a prideful demonstration of courage for her murderers to behold. Even as tears were on her cheek, her countenance was hard and unyielding like cold stone, for she was ready.  
  
She did not close her eyes. In that last moment of lucidity that comes to us right before death she could clearly hear as the black arrow was fitted and pulled; she could hear the bow squeaking as the archer's strong arms bent it, and then the whizzing sound of the release.  
  
Her soul went to Elessar at that split second in which the arrow flew towards her heart. He would be widowed and heirless, consumed by grief. With one arm she covered the fruit in her womb. Her mind emptied of everything but the love she had for the child she never held while she readied for impact.  
  
It never came.  
  
A righteous beast defied every law of nature and nearly flew in front of her, taking the arrow in the broad chest. Not even a moan escaped the noble Mithgor for he was glad he could serve the Queen when most needed, right in the nick of time.  
  
Arwen saw the wolf fall before her, the thick shaft well-entrenched in the side of its chest. A sob escaped her at the sight of such brave a sacrifice... for nothing, for now naught stood between death and her, and once again, she prepared.  
  
But the wolf, in his inborn wisdom, had known that his sacrifice was not in vain. Mithgor knew, for he had sensed it long before his powerful leap to eternity.  
  
Horses, shouts, piercing slashes and screams of agony. The forest became alive with sounds, as a mighty force made its way through the foliage, annihilating every perfidious archer found accountable for the slaughter that was the road in which Arwen stood alone atop a jittery Asfaloth. Half a dozen arrows were fitted in desperation and aimed at the lonely figure of the Queen; the assassins unwilling to go down without their kill. She felt the dark shafts flying her way and still she did not move, bracing for the imminent pierce.  
  
All she felt was a dry and solid blow on her side, then the violent loss of balance, and the plunge of her body to the bloodstained earth below.  
  
..........................................................................................................................  
  
She hit the ground, curiously not as harshly as expected. The road was muddied, slick with the dark blood of the soldiers, and as the thick, copper-smelling filth touched her face, a wave of nausea overwhelmed her. She opened her eyes to see Asfaloth bolting away from her, leaving her utterly alone. She whimpered with the fear of abandonment, of being left behind to the mercy of the murderers, and struggled to lift her head from the gory dirt; but then she realized the weight that was upon her, pressing her down to the ground.  
  
"You are safe now; stay still." The kind voice was unmistakable, and her heart sung when she realized she was not alone at all.  
  
"Legolas?"  
  
Murderous arrows whizzed above their ears, near, so very near. With horror Arwen heard the shrill clanks of many of them ramming against the back and sides of the Elven King's armor as he shielded her with his own body. She feared for him only, knowing that no harm would come to her, feeling safe underneath the unforeseen comfort of his weight.  
  
"Aramarth..."  
  
"Shhh, you are safe now, you are safe." He breathed the words into her ear softly, over and over like a chant, as if trying to convince himself and the rest of the world that they were true. The King's warm tears fell on the side of her face, leaving clean trails through the grime that covered it.  
  
Arwen felt the need to assure him, to somehow relieve the distress she could sense in his words and tears. "You are here with me now, my king. I am well."  
  
An agonized sob escaped him and he held to her body like a castaway to floating driftwood, while an arrow finally penetrated a weak spot of the Elven armor and pierced the back of Aramarth's arm near his elbow. Yet the pain did not reach him, for his anguish came only from the extended fear of being too late, of losing her to time. In the King's mind, the fact that he had saved her had not quite registered as yet.  
  
Fifteen Elven soldiers quickly formed a circle around the fallen pair; their long shields held side by side like tight dragon scales, creating a fence no arrow could pierce. Shielded from harm, Aramarth breathed in deeply, warily listening to the Queen's heartbeat and feeling the rise and fall of her breathing against his chest along with the tiny and frail life still inside of her. His mind was finally convinced that Queen and Heir were safe, and he let go of her, standing up and struggling to regain composure.  
  
She sat up as well, wiping the filth off her face with her sleeve within the security of the Elven formation. She looked up at the King, who was standing stiff and cold, his hair matted with the sweat of the long race. The rich helm had fallen from his head in the midst of the muddle, and his bright eyes seemed to have frozen, fixed upon the agonizing body of Mithgor laid right beside her.  
  
The elf kneeled back down slowly, hesitantly, his fingers carefully caressing the wolf's grimy pelt. "Mithgor..." His voice was less than a whisper.  
  
The wolf opened his tawny eyes, the pupils dilated with pain and the imminence of death, and faintly wagged the tail at the sight of his master.  
  
"My friend, my brother," Aramarth's voice was hoarse and stifled as he gathered the wolf in his arms. It had to be painful for the noble animal, and yet only soft whimpers of gratitude escaped him. The King cradled the fading body against his chest and whispered calmly in its final hour. "Godspeed, brother wolf. Your feat shan't be forgotten."  
  
With one final stentorian gasp, the wolf's heart faded and stopped, and the King's head bent down in a silent farewell, thick tears falling on his departed friend. But when Aramarth lifted up his face, it was a terrible thing to behold, for his eyes shone with the dark and violent storm gathering within his soul. He stood up, his whole being emanating the terrible wrath that had been unleashed.  
  
The air around him shook with the sound of his battle cry, while he unsheathed the beautiful but deadly sword.  
  
"_Gurth gothrim Tel'Quessir_!" (Death to the foes of the elves!) The message was clear; no prisoners would be taken.  
  
The King left the shielding circle, incautious of the still occasionally flying arrow. He moved his head from side to side like a predator, searching for a victim on which to unleash his fiery anger. An afterthought seemed to reach him, and he turned to give a final order to his vassals, while forcefully pulling out the pestering arrow that had pierced the back of his arm, ripping skin and flesh, and drawing out blood without as much as a flinch.  
  
"No man nears her." The Elven soldiers nodded slightly; no mortal man would come near the Queen.  
  
And then the King disappeared to a side of the road, eager to begin the hunt.  
  
Arwen was filled with fear of him, of the murderous depths she had glimpsed in his eyes and the vindictive tone she had heard in his voice. She feared what he was capable of doing; she feared what had been unleashed within him; and most of all she feared for the consequences that would be brought.  
  
All her qualms were confirmed soon after, as a harrowing scream was heard in the midst of the forest as the King dealt death; but his hands were not proficient to do it clean and quickly as he'd always done. In this occasion, he took time to inflict as much suffering and torment as he could, lingering in all the fear and pain he could wreak on the loathed men before sending them to the respite of death.  
  
Another agonizing scream was heard and then silence, silence that was only torn by his ferocious voice that commanded the other hunters in the dark forest. "None escapes. Follow them to the end. Herd them all into hell!"  
  
The pounding hoofs and screams confirmed the soldiers' absolute obedience to his every command, while Arwen wept of fear and sorrow, clinging to Mithgor's dead body.  
  
........................................................................................................................  
  
The unmistakable stench of blood in the road ahead filled Elessar's nostrils as he urged his mount, closely followed by Neithan, Hadathor and the full Gondorim cavalry. He felt lightheaded, weak, yet over-alert, like a ghoul walking in a nightmare.  
  
Neithan had found them just seconds after they stopped their march to the south, due to Hadathor's insistence about a "bad feeling" he had about the Queen's trip to the Elvendom of Ithilien. The young man had stumbled before them while Hadathor whispered to his King to go back into the road to Ithilien, saying that he had forewarnings in his heart about the Queen being endangered. The horse Neithan had been riding fell near death to the ground, its heart and lungs broken from exhaustion.  
  
Five words were exchanged and were enough to turn around the whole cavalry towards the east and to the Queen's aid.  
  
All known prayers came to Aragorn as he rode to meet his worst nightmares. Elvish, dwarvish, even Entish and all the tongues of men he knew of were uttered for the protection of his beloved. How could he not feel? How could he not sense, not know? It was an outrage for him that his general sensed it before he had. He felt incompetent, thoughtless, unworthy of the Evenstar's love. Of course, he never knew about the barrier wrought around his mind and heart by the crafts of a Dark Elf that wanted his ruin only.  
  
A turn on the road and the scene was revealed. Corpses, blood, death, despair; it was all the King of the free peoples could see. He cried out in a voice seemingly not his own, deprived of all pride and nobility.  
  
"Arwen!" It was a call wreaked from the depths of his most primal human nature, like the call of a babe that had lost their parents.  
  
"Estel!" Arwen managed to respond, trying to break a path towards her love, pushing away the Elven soldiers that guarded her. But they would not yield; they would not make way for her.  
  
"Arwen!" Now Aragorn's voice was broken with relief while he stumbled down from his horse with no trace of grace in his movements and ran towards his wife.  
  
What he found as he neared her voice was an impassable wall of stone-faced Eldar, swords drawn in firm hands.  
  
The King of men stopped, already falling into a fit of outrage. "What is this? Let me through at once!"  
  
His request was met with frosty eyes and a raise of the swords. "Stay back, son of Gondor."  
  
Arwen let loose her frustration, pushing and hitting the backs of the stubborn soldiers. "I command you to make way to my king; I order you to stop this madness!" Her voice held the authority of an ancient Elven queen, along with the exasperation of a spoiled lass. And yet, the warriors did not even flinch nor yield an inch of their positions; silent and unmovable like oaks, they stood around the Queen.  
  
At one command from General Hadathor, the Gondorim dismounted and went to their King, swords hastily drawn in defiance to the elves' insolence, thus escalating the hostilities to an alarming level. Only Neithan remained quiet and away from the conflict, his face a mask of watchful neutrality.  
  
Both groups faced forebodingly, one group much larger than the other; still the larger Gondorim party was far edgier than the unyielding Elven formation. Aragorn was beyond himself, mad with the need to hold his beloved; still, he was Elessar Telcontar, and when his vassals approached him, he signaled them to hold back and wait, reluctant to yet more blood spill.  
  
Hadathor, however, had far different intentions. "How dare they menace our King? We will not allow this wrongdoing." The General raised his armed hand and stepped forward threateningly, and many soldiers followed suit, more from instinct than will. Such boldness was however halted by a move so swiftly executed by the Eldar warriors that it was belittling to the men's ability. Before the advancing soldiers could even think of another step, they were faced by arrows tautly drawn on the long bows that only a split second before had been slung on the elves' backs; the unswerving, undaunted eyes of the chiseled warriors looking down on the shafts towards the men's hearts.  
  
The tension of the last instant lengthened unnaturally as everyone braced for the start of the irrational clash; that is, until a single call cut through the thick angst of the moment.  
  
"_Dartho_!" (Hold!)  
  
The Elven bows were lowered at once, as Aramarth appeared from the rear of the group, carelessly dragging a fallen enemy by the long dark tresses, a breathless Rumil following closely behind.  
  
"Let them be," he said nonchalantly, a strange smile appearing in his features.  
  
The elves broke their lines and the men stood back, baffled; therefore the hostilities were brought to an end, and the Queen was lastly released into the arms of her beloved Estel. They kissed desperately, disregarding the rest of the world around them, violently holding each other as if there was no other day left to do so. Indeed, it had been almost the case, had it not been for the dauntless Elven King who now approached the teary reunion.  
  
"You must forgive the fierce loyalty of my people, Aragorn, Lady Arwen," he said, bowing before the couple still merged in a passionate embrace. "They were under my orders not to allow any mortal man to approach the Evenstar; they merely abode by... quite literally, I must add," he said, while harshly throwing the archer he'd been dragging at the feet of the King and Queen.  
  
He eyed the group of elves that had the audacity to challenge the King of Gondor, his countenance undecided between scolding and approval. Rumil hastily signaled his companions to retreat from the site, still incredulous of their proceedings, and so the small Elven army stood aside, away from the men they had almost engaged with in battle.  
  
"No, Aramarth; there is nothing to forgive. It was the fierce loyalty of your people what saved the Evenstar; I should be thankful for it." Aragorn bowed before the elf, still in the back of his mind a flicker of doubt sparked. A dozen of his finest soldiers had fallen, all dead; and yet not even one Elven soldier seemed to have more than a scratch. More than anything, why had Arwen tensed so evidently when Aramarth neared them? He was filled with more doubtful thoughts he tried to disregard, but it was like his mind was being invaded and conquered from outside, instilling discord in him.  
  
The man eyed the Elven King, and a grimace of disgust involuntarily formed in his face. He had shared many a battle with Legolas, and always he had noticed how the elf-prince managed to come out spotless, even after the most vicious ones. What he saw was completely different, for Aramarth's armor, face and hands were wholly smeared with blood and filth. The elf seemed exhausted, drained from killing, and yet his eyes glistened with bloodthirsty frenzy, as if he wished for more of the same.  
  
Aragorn tried to shake his train of thoughts away. This was his life friend, Legolas, the one who had just saved his beloved wife. He diverted his thoughts, looking to the body Aramarth had tossed at his feet.  
  
"Their garments seem Haradrim," he noted, thinking out loud.  
  
"But their features are clearly of the Easter people," Aramarth countered, kicking the body to face up, revealing the features to be more delicate than those of the Haradrim folk. "And so are their weapons; this is undoubtedly Easterling treachery."  
  
Aragorn's heart flinched. If these assassins were indeed Easterlings, it would mean war with Brodda. War, again.  
  
"Surely we will find out upon interrogation."  
  
"There is none left to interrogate, Aragorn. We slaughtered them all." The elf's voice was spiteful even when saying that their enemies were all already dead.  
  
A tremor embedded into Aragorn's most basic instincts, but the King in him waved it away stubbornly. He did not fear his friend; he could not fear him.  
  
It was not the moment for fears and qualms, and the King of men did what was expected of him  
  
"Then there is no time left to loose. I must reach to Brodda as soon as possible and clear this matter."  
  
"And Ithilien will be there to support Gondor when the time comes," Aramarth added, the spiteful glint in his eyes intensifying even more.  
  
"You ride with us?"  
  
"No, I shall go to my city first and summon the whole army," Aramarth said, picking up Mithgor's body in his arms. "We shall meet you at the bank of the River Poros."  
  
"Arwen will not go to your city." In his heart, Aragorn knew his wife no longer wished to do so.  
  
Aramarth's eyes found the Evenstar's, and he was pained when she recoiled from his turbulent gaze, tightening her hold on Elessar's arm. "I do not blame her," he said, signaling Rumil to pick up the body of the Easterling archer.  
  
"I would have had her stay safe in the fortress of my realm instead of going to face war with you, but these lands have changed and darkened in a day's time. I can no longer see where safety is, so let her stay near you if there is where she feels protected." Aramarth's words held a hint of reproach. After all, she had been saved by Neithan's effort, Mithgor's sacrifice and the elves' skill. The Gondorim had nothing to do with her survival, and yet she chose to stay with them. Besides, so far Arwen had not thanked him.  
  
He furthered his resentment by apologizing for the ambush "How these snakes went through my guarded borders, I do not know. But I will find out and will not take a rest until my lands are made safe once more. I will have my lady walk through this forest with no need of safeguard before the next moon. This, I swear."  
  
Aramarth bowed low, his bloodied hand clutching the breastplate of his armor. "I will meet you soon."  
  
"My horse!" he called, and a young Silvan called Eressel fetched Arod to his side. He slung Mithgor atop and then perched himself on the still sweaty steed.  
  
As he rode, the King of Elves called to his soldiers, "Ride hard, Eldar brothers. Blow your horns through the forests, and let the call for war reach to Emyn Arnen and all the borders of our realm. Thus comes the chance to fulfill all the oaths you've sworn to your King and your ancestors. Follow me, to death and beyond!"  
  
Arwen buried her face in Aragorn's shoulder and the King noted how she trembled. "It is over, my love. We are together now and no harm shall reach you. But come, we must ride now."  
  
The Evenstar raised her troubled face to her husband. "I do not fear for myself. I fear for you, for him, for your kingdoms and most of all for our peoples. The trees, the earth and waters are silent, and yet their silence feels like screams to my heart. A storm is coming."  
  
.......................................................................................................................  
  
Man! That was a looong chapter. It was the least I could do after such a long time, right?  
  
Well, I hope you enjoyed it, and I hope you still find it interesting to keep reading and waiting for.  
  
Thank you, thank you, and thank you again to all you lovelies that review, and remember to do it again, please?  
  
And once again, I want to thank Precious Jewelle for proofreading this monster, I really appreciate your help. Really!  
  
Blessings to all.  
  
Elwe 


	10. Poros

CHAPTER 9

POROS

The River Poros was a border, in more ways than just a political division; it was the line that kept two worlds apart. To the north, in Ithilien, the land stretched far and green in bushy hills; for after the shadow of Mordor passed and under the rule of the elven colony, Ithilien had come to be the fairest country in the westlands of Middle-earth. To the south, however, the land was an austere vale extending all the way into Harad, dry, dusty soil lined with leafless and prickly, low trees barely surviving under the merciless southern sun.

The Gondorian company reached the bank of the river two days after the Evenstar's ambush near Emyn Arnen in Ithilien, and already they could feel the scorching heat that baked the lands south of the border. Of all the members of the group none had ventured so far south, perhaps only Aragorn, years ago during his adventures as young captain Thorongil when fighting the corsairs of Umbar under the service of Ecthelion (then Steward of Gondor), had come to even cross the River, but for the rest of them it was a whole new experience; specially for Queen Arwen who had never traveled to lands remotely akin to the road to Harad.

She had been restless all through the morning; so much so that even Asfaloth was edgy, as he could feel the unease in her posture and tense movements atop him. The Queen had looked up to the sky that morning knowing it'd be an ill-fated day. She had dreamed of blood again, and whatever foresight she had left in her showed her no light in the darkness that had settled all around her.

It was two hours before noon when the Poros came to their view. It was a loud and shallow stream, none too wide either, and flanked by sharp, black rocks. But it was the sight that stretched to the south of the waterway that caught Arwen's breath in her throat with fret. A vast army, more numerous than what Hadathor had cared to describe, scores of ragged tents the color of sun-bathed sand disarrayed across the plain. She had never been in a battle, not even close to one; even during the War of the Ring she had been safe within the borders of Imladris and under the watchful care of Elrond the Peredhil while the gruesome battles of Helm's Deep, Pelennor and Morannon were fought.

Now she could see the long, bright spears lined and ready to pierce the Army of the White Tree. She could smell the foreign scent of the mass of Easterling soldiers, already forming to meet her group. She could feel the hate and eagerness to battle coming from the gathering lines of dark soldiers, oh so close to her; it was the same hate she felt on the road to Emyn Arnen only days ago, on the most dreadful minutes of her life, that were now menacing to be repeated.

She was filled with an overwhelming impulse to flee.

Had it not been for the unexpected meeting with two old acquaintances she would have turned around and head to the higher tower in the citadel of Minas Tirith.

"Lord Elessar, Lady Undomiel, we received word of your arrival."

Aragorn looked disbelievingly at the two elves bowing before him, elves he knew since he was a child back in Rivendell. The first one had pointed ears and elegantly slanted eyebrows. His build was slim but strong, like a rapier. A powerful bow was slung on his back. A sword pressed against his side opposite a quiver of arrows fletched with swan feathers. His name was Feanrod.

The other had the same fair face and angled features. He carried a long spear in his right hand and a white dagger at his belt. A helm of extraordinary craftsmanship, wrought with amber and gold, rested on his head. He was called Enros.

Aragorn was about to dismount to greet them when he noticed a small group coming forward towards the river from the Easter Army; one of them surely had the appearance to be the emperor.

"There are more pressing matters that need tending now, my lord," said the elf called Feanrod, smiling wistfully at the man he had seen growing in the house of Lord Elrond. "We will greet each other properly when this threat is managed."

Aragorn nodded slightly in acknowledgement and called his herald, General Hadathor and Neithan (who had become very much the King's shadow ever since the Ithilien incident) to follow him towards the River.

"Estel…!" The strained voice of his queen stopped his march, and he looked back to her trying to muster enough confidence to show comfort in his eyes.

"You'll be safe here," he said softly, dedicating to her a small smile.

"But you…" She began to argue, her eyes darting to the dark sea of enemies he was riding towards.

"I will return to you, as I've always have."

Elessar's eyes lingered on hers a little longer, trying to convey that he had no fear and that she shouldn't either. Only when she sighed acquiescently did he look to Feanrod and Enros, the elven border wardens.

"My friends, I would have you take my queen to the higher grounds and away from the front line."

Enros took hold of Asfaloth's reins. "We will try our best to be enjoyable company for such a lovely lady. And you, fine King, beware and good providence."

Arwen could not say she'd found peace, not even in her kinsmen's company. Her heart beat uncontrolled within her chest and her eyes strayed constantly to her husband's back as he rode away to meet Brodda. The elves tried to soothe her with words of reassurance, but even in their ancient wisdom, there was no word they could utter to quench the intense fear that had settled inside the Queen's very core.

……………………………………………………………………………………..

It was a silent ride towards the edge of the river, and Aragorn could feel the weight of his crown wearing him down more than ever before. Beside him, Neithan showed no sign of fear or concern, not even excitement. He was quiet as well, looking calmly upon the army rising before them, but his mind seemed to be elsewhere, as if he had greater concerns to ponder on; namely, his master's new conspiracies after the ambush on Arwen failed.

Neithan had not seen him ever since, nor had he answered the Dark Elf's unspoken summons that had reached him both nights he had traveled with Aragorn's army. But he had lived with his master long enough to know that he would not give up so easily, and surely he'd found new ways to work the unexpected events to the benefit of his purpose. Of course, seeing Gondor's general sneaking from camp and into the woods the night before had only served to confirm such suspicions.

He risked a side-glance to Hadathor, noting at once the general's unsuccessful attempts to mask the ridicule glint of satisfaction and anticipation showing in his face; and it was then that the young man knew that somehow the events about to unfold in the field before him were part of his master's latest scheme.

Neithan had never been in a battle, but his "father" had comprehensively and intensely trained him in the art of war. He recalled all of the learned skill as his horse's hoofs finally splashed the Poros water, and knew it was time to choose his path.

He thought of how much he dreaded meeting with his master, not because of any punishment his master could inflict on him, but because deep within his soul he no longer wanted to be a part of the Dark Elf's strange intent.

Knowing in his heart that this meeting was something he could not avoid for much longer, he made his decision as both parties faced each other in the river. If there was going to be a battle that day, he would fight on Elessar's side. He cared not about his life; in fact, death was exactly what he desired.

………………………………………………………………………….

If any word could best describe the emperor of the east, it would be"pompous". The man called Brodda was tall and portly, with braided long black hair and matching small dark eyes that were calm and keen at the same time. His stance was straight and proud, even atop the small, stout, but meticulously adorned eastern grassland horse he rode. The emperor wore a golden armor that was too small for him, garnished with vibrant tones of red and green; on his side hung a curve blade, carved with the intricate patterns that formed the written eastern language.

Beside the emperor stood not one, but two heralds, both bearing the banner of the empire, which was a rich embroidery of a golden palm tree over fabric so red it seemed the setting sun had spilled its fieriest tints on it.

An ominous whisper arose from both armies as the rulers faced each other silently, their faces as stone, their stances uptight, and their eyes cautious, as though one was sizing the other.

Aragorn waited eternal minutes, trying to conceal his restiveness, for he wanted to concede the emperor the first greeting. He found himself wondering about this man Brodda, astounded by the way the emperor could stand to fearlessly look at him right in the eye, as very few men he'd known could. What he found out later was that Brodda himself was pondering on the exact same thoughts, for no man the emperor knew would dare or stand to hold his gaze up to him.

"You are truly a king, man of the west," Brodda said in perfect Westron, and as a way of salutation, bowed his head slightly. "Your eyes are like the steel from whence the best swords are forged."

Aragorn found himself even more surprised by the emperor's odd but wise choice of words. He bowed his head as well, his eyes never leaving Brodda's. "And yours are like the coals that give life to flames that can bend such steel, emperor from the rising sun."

Brodda laughed wholeheartedly at the king's perfect counter to his words. "It seems I've found a match worthy of a good verbal spar!"

Aragorn smiled at the emperor's smartness, but his eyes strayed to the mass of soldiers standing at the edge of the kingdom he had sworn to protect.

"I'd rather speak plain and to the purpose right now, Emperor Brodda. Today we lead armies to face one another, and the outcome of whatever you and I decide today will determine if perhaps tomorrow we can gather as friends for a verbal spar, or if we must wage war against each other."

Brodda's smile faded at Elessar's forwardness, and his eyes also strayed to the silvery glints of the Army of the White Tree behind the king's noble frame.

"Right, right," he said pensively, fingering the long, thin beard that adorned his abundant chin. "You probably have many questions that need answer. Let us get down to business if we must."

Aragorn took a deep breath. "My army is outnumbered by yours; I do not want a battle."

Brodda acknowledged the king's candor and answered in the same line. "Yet you have the better cavalry, and your soldiers' armors are stronger and better built. If we are to fight, surely it'll be for the great loss to both of us."

Aragorn raised his brow questioningly. "Then you do not wish for a battle either."

"I never said I wanted war," the emperor said tersely, in a tone that no longer held the frankness of his previous words.

Aragorn was confused by the man's behavior. "Then, I would ask you why you come here with this great army and invade the lands of Harad?"

Brodda seemed to hesitate with his answer for a moment, as if recalling previously memorized words. "I did not think you'd care so much for the Haradrim's infernal lands… after all, they not so long ago allied with the Dark Lord against Gondor, did they not?"

Aragorn's jaw squared tensely, striving for a diplomatic way to answer Brodda's question. "I do not think you could use such argument, Emperor Brodda. I was in the Battle at Pelennor and saw Easterling ranks joining those of the orcs as well."

Brodda huffed as if insulted, but kept his angry words for himself. "Many fought and died in that war. Many were deceived and fell under the Mordor Lord's spell. I cannot be counted as one of the deceived ones, nor was I in this great battle you speak of; but if some of the outer villages of my empire did fall, I could not control it."

Aragorn could feel the emperor's temper rising worryingly despite the mild words he had used, and so he took a moment to choose his next words. But it was at that point, and seizing the moment of tense silence, that Hadathor grasped his opportunity.

"This… maneuver of your barbarian hordes is an open threat to the free peoples of Middle Earth under Gondor's rule and protection. Stop your ramble and explain your motives at once!" The words spilled unchecked and spiteful out of the general's mouth before Aragorn could stop him with a single glance of his stormy eyes. But the damage was already done. Brodda went from upset to livid.

"I did not come here to speak to common soldiers!" he yelled, his whizzing breathing becoming even more strenuous from his rage. "Much less be slighted by a miserable maggot like you!"

Aragorn intervened quickly, positioning himself between the enraged emperor and Hadathor, watching closely as Brodda's hand inched closer to the hilt of his sword. "Emperor, please. Pay no heed to this foolish soldier's rash words."

Doing what his instinct commanded, Aragorn reared his steed to force Hadathor away from the conflict. "It's his fear and doubt talking, for we still don't know why you march so closely to our lands."

Brodda spat on the ground and lifted up his chin, challenging Aragorn to add one more rash word to those spoken, and thus ensnare the king into being guilty of sparking a conflict. Aragorn did not take the bait.

"T'was you who beckoned us to come by camping at the very border of our realm, Emperor. I did not come here to defy nor slight you. I just answered to your unspoken summons and out of respect came presently to hear whatever you must tell me." Aragorn's words were courteous and firm, leaving no space for ambiguity.

Brodda swallowed his hurt pride and regained his stately poise.

"Very well then, but be sure to keep your servants' tongues checked," he said, eyeing Hadathor murderously. Yet the way the emperor's eyes regarded Aragorn made the king of Gondor realize with no small amount of relief that Brodda was still willing to bargain.

His relief did not last long, however, as he heard the low yet momentous rumble of a large cavalry approaching the river from behind his post. Aragorn chose not to turn his back on the emperor to watch the imminent arrival and waited patiently, looking closely at Brodda's eyes that were already fixed upon the hills of South Ithilien.

The emperor's midnight orbs widened in a mix of shock and awe, which was very uncharacteristic for his countenance, and Aragorn knew, without any need to turn his head and look back, that the Eldar King had arrived.

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Aramarth entered the scene in a full gallop, breaking from behind the crest of the hill like the sun breaks from the east at dawn. Five hundred elven soldiers mounted and fully armed followed him, and not one of them hesitated or even stopped to look upon the great Eastern army down below, almost as if it was not there at all.

They crossed in front of the Gondorian army, not even glancing at the soldiers either, and stopped only to form perfect ranks at one side of the White Tree banner. Yet there was no precedence in their formation; they were just warriors with no protocol or title before one another, Eldar brethren ready to face whatever was to come their way as long as they were together. They looked not to the sides but straight ahead; they were cold, adamant, and showed no sign of fear or doubt.

The elven king took a moment to survey the scene, holding tightly the reins of the eager warhorse tugging and huffing beneath him. On noticing Feanrod and Enros up in the higher grounds he parted from his group and managed to steer the combat-keen animal towards them.

Arwen's insides rippled at the sight of the king coming straight at her. Already she could feel the spiteful and vicious stance that overwhelmed him, the inner combustion that emanated from Aramarth and took primacy over all his presence. Feanrod stepped forward from her side to salute his liege, putting his hand over his heart and bowing briefly. Enros, always the quiet one, did the same but held his ground beside the queen, holding on to Asfaltoth's reins.

The black brute Aramarth was riding reared up on its powerful haunches and snorted noisily upon stopping before the trio, head tossing and nostrils flaring, causing Asfaloth to step back nervously, unsettled by the outsized, dark charger. Enros had to soothe him with gentle whispers, smoothing the soft fur under his ears.

"You brought Maur-agar, my lord," Feanrod said questioningly, warily eyeing the agitated darkness his king was riding. "It must have been an interesting journey from Emyn Arnen."

"I thought him appropriate for the day," Aramarth answered nonchalantly, while the animal turned and pranced underneath him.

Maur-agar. The name rang loudly in Arwen's mind. It meant literally "blood addict". She looked at the foreboding animal, an extension of its master's temper, and unconsciously, her eyes roamed up to find two blazes of pure blue fixed upon her. She could not stand Aramarth's eyes and turned away, instantly regretting that her recoil would offend him and add to his rage.

His eyes did not leave her; she could feel Aramarth's gaze firm upon her, even as he spoke with Feanrod the warden about positions, topography and such. She sought for the familiar shape of Aragorn down the hill for comfort, but even he appeared so vulnerable, standing upon the edge of two forces about to collide.

"And Elessar?" Aramarth's question captured her attention; still she did not raise her eyes to him.

Feanrod stated what was already obvious. "He meets with the emperor… they still parley, it seems."

Aramarth's right hand tightened on Maur-agar's reins, and the horse tossed his head violently. "Parley? What is there to negotiate with them?" The king's words were hissed with such contempt that they reverberated like shouts.

"He willingly walks into those serpents' pit. He should be getting the soldiers ready to attack."

"It's their protocol, my lord," Feanrod said, trying to appease him.

"Rubbish! That's what it is. I wonder what happened to the Ranger that once I fought with side by side; he who charged with no hindrance or qualm upon the masses of foes."

Once again, Arwen felt his eyes boring into her as he continued to speak his aggravation. "He is a king now, full of liabilities and burdens that force him even to leave his queen behind, who's worried sick for his sake."

It was then that Maur-agar's impatience became greater than the allegiance to his rider; the small ears shot back and he started walking sideways, turning the ox-like head back to try and bite his master's hand off the reins.

"Still yourself!" Aramarth said, slapping the powerful neck solidly. "This will not do; Maur-agar can no longer wait, and neither can I."

"You have not been summoned, my lord. What will you do?" The diplomatic culture of Imladris was made known by Feanrod's urgent question.

"I'm going to stir up a fight," was the King's answer, as he turned Maur-agar towards the river. "Fear not, Undomiel. You will not mourn him, at least not today. This I vow even if it's me the one to be mourned for when all is finished. By then, perhaps your words would be, 'Better him than Estel'."

Only then did she raise her eyes, but he had already turned his back to her. And only then did she notice he was wearing Elrond's full war garb, complete with Hadhafang, her father's celebrated sword, sheathed in a scabbard that hung from his back, and Gil-Galad's long spear Aiglos, which he held with all the strength of his left arm.

"Don't leave her side." It was his final order to the wardens before finally allowing the restless steed to run down the hill and towards the Poros crossing.

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"Is this the mysterious elven king some even fear talking about?" Brodda's question finally allowed Aragorn to turn around and see him come.

The king of Gondor did not need a second nor closer view to realize the elf's intentions. Aramarth rode alone, with no herald or banner. He was fully armed, riding too hastily on a horse that stood a full feet over any other horse in the field, obviously a battle charger, and moreover a vicious one by the sheer look of it. He then noticed Elrond's armor.

Aragorn could not suppress the soft, earnest whisper that escaped him. "Oh no, Legolas..."

The approaching elven king raised Aiglos for all to see. The High King's spear was over 9 feet long; its blade gleaming like an icicle, hence its given name.

The display was enough for Aragorn to panic. "I would have you excuse me for a moment, emperor," he said, while spurring his horse to meet Aramarth. He shot a warning signal to a jittery Hadathor. "You… take heed of your own tongue."

Neithan, on his part, could not suppress a small smile at the new arrival.

Aragorn rode straight at the charging Elf King, who did not pull Maur-agar to a halt until the last moment, right when the fierce horse was about to tread over Aragorn's smaller steed.

"Why do you delay me?" shouted the elf, while struggling to regain control of the rearing Maur-agar with only one hand.

"Legol… Aramarth!" Aragorn corrected himself, pulling on the reins of his own panicked mount.

Aramarth let out a short, sharp laugh. "Legolas will do, remember, Ranger."

Aragorn wiped the suddenly copious sweat off his brow. "I would beseech you to allow me to finish my talk with the emperor."

"Whatever for, my lord?" Aramarth said, forcefully managing to settle down Maur-agar. "Why would you deny me the right to meet the illustrious Brodda?"

"You are ruled by your anger. I can see it in your eyes. Please, don't spark a battle that can be prevented."

"When did you come to fear battle, Aragorn?"

"I swore to rule in the renewed days of peace, can you not understand? Our only enemy is already defeated!"

"No, Aragorn. It is you who don't understand. Some wars cannot be avoided. They earned my anger, OUR anger, the moment they tried to lay their filthy hands upon Arwen."

Aragorn hesitated a moment, but then forced himself not to believe. "We are not sure of that…"

"YOU choose to stay blind to the truth, Aragorn, but I will not sit back and do nothing while you open your arms and your trust to them murderers!"

"And I will not risk the blood of MY people on your spiteful suspicions, Legolas."

The elven king tightened his jaw and held his gaze on Aragorn. He urged his mount to walk a few steps ahead, stopping right next to Aragorn's horse. Instead of the escalating shouts they have uttered, he spoke slow and soft, looking sideways at the king of men.

"Then my advice to you, King Elessar, is to run up to your people, and all of you flee from these hills and back to Gondor. For there is going to be a battle here today, whether you endorse it or not. I came here only to make sure of that, even if I must fight it on my own."

And with that, he loosened Maur-agar's reins, to which the horse responded at once, renewing the hasty gallop towards the riverbed, and Brodda.

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So, new chapter. As always I'm very sorry for the delay. And as always, I'm very thankful to Precious Jewelle for her steadfast help and supportto my writings. I couldn't do it without you...

I hope you still enjoy this story, and like I said before... I Will Finish it!

Many blessings.

Elwe.

Next Chapter: The Bones Of Our Foes Will Gleam Under The Sun


	11. The Bones of Our Foes

CHAPTER 10

THE BONES OF OUR FOES WILL GLEAM UNDER THE SUN

Aramarth came to a halt right before the Emperor of the East; raising his arm, he entrenched the great spear Aiglos deep into a black rock in the river.

"So you are the great King Aramarth," Brodda croaked, trying to appear unimpressed by the haughty display of strength. "Everywhere I go I keep hearing this name, always half-whispered in awe and reverence."

The Eastern Emperor waited for an answer or a greeting but nothing came, for Aramarth stood still and quiet, eyes fixed upon Brodda's face.

Aragorn reached the site but dared not talk, as neither did anyone standing upon the Poros. _"The eerie calm before a storm hits," _thought the King of Men, bracing himself for the worst.

Brodda's eyes strayed away from the elf's stern gaze, and yet he forced himself to utter a few more words. "Now I see why they whisper. Your mere presence commands reverence."

Aramarth's features did not shift, not even as he spurred Maur-agar ahead, startling the Easterlings' small mounts.

The elf steered the mighty horse to encircle around the small eastern committee, menacing, defying, earning nervous side glances and head turns.

Brodda hesitated before voicing his discomfort. "Is this elf mute or deaf?" he asked to none in particular. No answer came and so he spoke to Aragorn. "Why does he not speak? Why does he corral me as if I were a prey of his?"

Aramarth pulled his horse to stand between Aragorn and Brodda, as a leer finally changed his stony mask.

"Why do you ask Elessar on my behavior, man of the east? I am an Eldar King. I am no charge of his."

"Finally, you speak. I was starting to be – "

"I spoke only because you pointed your angry finger at the wrong king, Easterling."

"You dare interrupt me? I thought you came here to beg for an agreement, like Elessar King so wisely did," huffed Brodda, obviously displeased at the elf's bearing.

"Beg? Agreement?" Aramarth said, after a sharp, cold laugh.

"I have a question, Brodda," the elf said spitefully, nearing the imperial mount dangerously. "Since when do the legendary eastern warriors wait and settle for a treaty?

"Always I have heard of the fearless, merciless warriors of the rising sun, their craving for conquest and glory. Tell me, what ever happened to the promise and boast of all eastern rulers never to die on a bed of old age but on the battlefield? What of the songs of your women? Don't they still praise how the blood drenching the garments of their lovers scented them more sweetly than any incense or oil of myrrh?

"Now you speak of treaties and seek for agreements. What would your forefathers say, emperor? Would they be proud of the offspring they produced?"

Brodda's breathing became labored again, yet his answer was leveled and controlled. "Times change; the world changed with the passing of an age, and my people has changed as well."

Aramarth reached for Aiglos, violently dislodging the great spear from the dark rock it was embedded in.

"Yes, you have changed indeed!" he cried, striking the ground with great might.

"Now your attacks are veiled and treacherous. You strike from behind like cowardly snakes, instead of head-on like your gloried forebears!" Every word was uttered louder than the other; until the king's irate words could be heard by both armies.

Brodda finally found his voice. "I will have no more of this mindless insults and accusations! What evil are you speaking of?"

The elf's flustered face turned redder with anger. "Will you dare deny then, your failed attack on the Queen of Gondor? Will you stand here today and deny before Elessar himself, your vile plan to destroy him by ceasing the Evenstar's life?"

Brodda's face appeared genuinely surprised, yet terribly concerned. "I do not know what you speak of. This is nonsense! The elf has lost his mind!"

Aramarth's face finally calmed, and the smirk returned to his lips. "Have I?" he asked, turning to face Aragorn. "Have I lost my wits, Estel?"

Aragorn had been silently praying to the Valar for help, but seeing Aramarth's face took all hope from him. "Please, Legolas, think of your people, of your lands, and cease this. There is no proof they were involved, and praise Eru my beloved is safe; thanks to you and to Neithan."

"Proof, of course. Evidence is necessary, and I shall provide it," Aramarth said, ignoring Aragorn's plea and turning once more to face Brodda.

"Where is your heir, emperor?"

Everyone, and Brodda more than anyone else, was taken aback by the question. Yet the emperor answered it. "My son came with me, but I sent him back to my lands five days ago, to bear news to our family, and bring back news of them as well. Why do you ask? What does he have to do with this?"

"Did you or did you not order him to lead an ambush inside Ithilien?" Aramarth asked, while calmly reaching for a saddlebag hanging just behind him.

"No! Stop your stupidity. My son is on the Harad road, most likely many leagues away from your ridiculous accusations."

The elf let out a tired sigh. "Alright, if you must appear so uninformed, let me explain this in a way we can all understand.

"There was an attack on the Evenstar of the Eldar and Elessar's lawful Queen two days ago, at the road near Emyn Arnen."

Brodda's patience was by then spent. "WHAT does this have to do with my son!"

But Aramarth kept talking, his voice monotone and serene. "My people and I arrived on time and prevented the murder, slaughtering all of the attackers, making sure none escaped.

"One of them, however, soon after one of my soldiers reported, pled for his life, swearing upon his importance and the great price his father would pay for his ransom. But in my anger I had come into that place as judge, jury and executioner, and had given orders to my soldiers not to let any of them live to see the light of another day, and so the young man died by Elven blade as well.

"Out of sheer curiosity, I had his body taken to my city only to discover the uncanny resemblance he bore to the royal portraits brought to me by scouts that had surveyed your empire some months ago. I couldn't help but wonder…"

"You lie!" spat Brodda, clutching at his chest, perhaps touching a token hidden underneath his clothes, perhaps trying to soothe the rapidly increasing pain in his heart. He stuttered in fear and doubt. "My son did not fall by the hands of your worthless elves. He's a mighty warrior, and I sent him away from harm!"

Aramarth's voice became even colder and devoid of feeling. "You seem to be unsure; but like I said, I was his judge, his jury and executioner, and now I put an end to all doubts."

Reaching inside the dark saddlebag, the King of Elves pulled out the bloodied head of Brodda's firstborn Bledda, cleanly severed by the taut steel of Hadhafang's blade. And griping it from the long, black tresses, he tossed it to the emperor's trembling hands.

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A harrowing scream reverberated through all the hills and vales near the Poros River. It slashed at the air around Arwen with such pain and grief, that it reached into the inmost entrails of her soul, causing tears to spring to her wide-open eyes. She turned to the river were the lords were gathered, and saw the Emperor of the East crying out to the sky hoarsely, like a wounded animal, while clutching a shapeless bundle against his breast.

"_The first thunderclap,"_ she thought, while worriedly watching as the lords of Gondor and Ithilien turned and fled from certain death. Only the lingering shock on the Easterling ranks saved the kings of men and elves; only the hesitation to the frantic bawls of "Kill them!" from the emperor allowed them to flee unharmed.

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"You did not need to do this! You should have told me from the beginning!" shouted Aragorn, bending his body upon his galloping steed to avoid the golden fletched arrows falling upon them.

Legolas let out a merry chuckle, his eyes sparkling fiercely. "Alright, but do you believe me now?" His voice was near gleeful.

Aragorn grunted, disbelieving the elf's blitheness while arrows continued to whiz only inches from his ears. "What will you have me say? You were right, yes; but this was no way to handle such an issue. You behave like a child!"

"Spare me from your anger, Aragorn. Save it for our foes!"

"Flighty elf! My soldiers are not prepared. How are we to repel their full attack?" Aragorn asked, straightening his body upon being out of range of the eastern archers.

"Trust me again, just this once, Aragorn. Listen to my voice and follow my words, and I avow to you, that the bones of our foes will gleam under the sun."

Aramarth extended his arm towards Aragorn, even as they rode full gallop. "Will you trust and follow me today, Estel, as I once trusted you and followed you into endless battles?"

The King of Men looked upon the Great Aramarth, discovering a glimpse of his simple but brave old friend in the depths of the fierce cobalt eyes that looked at him so full of hope.

"I shall," the man said softly, grasping the offered forearm firmly, and thus they reached the top of the hill together, holding each other's arm in companionship, even as the loud rumble of the mass of Easterlings frenetically preparing to charge on them could be heard from afar.

"Aragorn, Hadathor, lead your infantry onward. Put your long shields upfront to hold their advance; do not let them take the hill. Use your cavalry to protect the flanks," Aramarth said, nodding slightly to his Elven riders who formed in a well-practiced position at once and waited for their king.

"Are we to follow his orders, my king?" asked Hadathor, trying not to seem too upset by the possibility.

"We are," Aragorn answered simply, unsheathing Andúril from its black scabbard. "I will lead the right flank; Hadathor will lead the left."

Aramarth further instructed them. "My riders and I will attack them from the south flank, but you must hold the lines until we return. No matter what happens, do not yield an inch."

Aragorn nodded resolutely and, putting his hand over his heart, he parted towards the right flank.

The ever-silent Neithan made to follow him at once, but was stopped by Aramarth's voice.

"Surely you do not intend to go into battle with only a hunting knife, do you, young Neithan? No matter how great a hunting knife it is."

Aramarth reached underneath the fabric of the undercoat of Maur-agar's saddle and pulled out a beautiful, short, straight Elven sword. "This is the sword of Elladan Elrondion, and I am only lending it to you. Make good use of it while you can hold it, and I expect you to return it after the battle."

He handed the slender blade to the young man, who took it without word or hesitation.

"Protect your king, Neithan. I trust you."

It was all the young man needed to hear. Turning his horse, he followed Aragorn's path, determined not to disappoint the Elven King's given trust.

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"Charge! Kill them, kill them all!"

Brodda's commands to the great army were mad and erratic, roused by woe and anger. His arms gripped his son's head spasmodically, refusing to let go of it despite the pleas of his closest officials.

His advisors tried to put some sense into the grief-stricken emperor, beseeching him not to send the whole army into assault without strategy or rule.

But the once proud man fell on his knees, defeated in sorrow, and commanded the great eastern army with a hoarse whisper, "Full attack!"

Brodda's men hesitated to give out the order, knowing that the western cavalry along with the Elven riders would crush down half of the eastern soldiers the moment they crossed the river, but then a murmur coming from the ranks drew their attention to the hills of Ithilien.

"Look! The Elf King flees from the battlefield!"

And it appeared to be that way, for the entire Elven cavalry tore away from the host of the White Tree and galloped west along the river without looking back.

"The Elven host cowers away from us, my lord."

A surge of renewed power seemed to flow through Brodda's bent body. He stood up to in fact see Aramarth riding away with his entire horde.

"Craven fool," the emperor said, might returning to his voice and stance. "He doubtlessly rides to seek the aid of the Swan Prince of the seaport. But he makes a mistake; by the time the army of Dol-Amroth comes, Elessar will be dead and Ithilien overrun.

"Sound the charge."

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"Where do they go? They desert us ere the battle?"

The clamor rose from the army of the White Tree, as they were unaware of Aramarth's plans. The soldiers stepped back, gripped by their own fright and believing the elves had betrayed them. But Aragorn's voice arose above their murmurs, steady and commanding of obedience.

"Silence your foolish fears, and stand beside your king!"

It was all Elessar had to say that day; there were no heartfelt or inspired speeches to stir the men, only his unassailable presence as he raised the bright Andúril before them, his face stern and resolute.

"The full legion of Anarion will take the lead of us, long spears and shields to the front to stop the Easterlings' head. Half of the cavalry will follow this Flame of the West to protect the legion's right flank. The rest of you will follow the General of the house of Ecthelion to protect the left flank." Heralds passed Aragorn's orders to all the men, and thus they advanced to meet the already charging mass of Easterlings.

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There was not even a glance back from him, no meaningful gaze to appease her and ask for her blessing, to at least bid her goodbye. Elessar left, too burdened by his many duties to even remember her, just as Aramarth had said before leaving to instigate the battle about to take place.

She was tempted to put the blame of everything onto the Elven King, for his stubbornness and unrest that caused the inevitable clash. But the Evenstar could not bring herself to feel disdain for Aramarth, not after seeing him garbed in her father's war attire, bearing his sword and the spear inherited from Gil-Galad, whom Elrond so loyally served.

No, she could do nothing more than be in awe of his might and fierce resolution, for whatever Aramarth had done and was going to do at the fields near the River Poros that day, it would be in honor of her. And Arwen was careful to admit that never in her life had she felt more privileged; even as her beloved husband rode out to face thousands of angry warriors, and Aramarth was nowhere to be found.

Deep inside she knew, despite the loud thunder of both armies colliding in the field below her, that whatever was to happen that day, the King of Elves was in control. The fearless elf had pledged that nothing would happen to Estel, at the cost of his own life, and now she believed him with all her heart.

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Thank you; thank you so much for reading this. Once again I'm deeply sorry for the delay but I'll have you know that in compensation for my writing laziness, next chapter will be up next week. So, keep an eye out for it.

Much appreciation for the wonderful reviews, that inspire me to keep on writing this monster, and a huge, thankful bear hug to Precious Jewelle for proofreading this for me.

So see you next time!

Elwe..

Next Chapter: A difference in Skill. (Coming very soon, I promise!)


	12. A Difference in Skill

CHAPTER 11

A DIFFERENCE IN SKILL

The sound of two masses of warring soldiers pushing against one another drilled inside Elessar's ears. Years had passed since last he'd heard such noises: the shrill clatter of swords, the dry clanks of armor clashes, the powerful shouts, the cries of pain and the gasps of fear, but more than anything, the quiet, throaty groans of dying men all around him.

Yes, years had passed since his last battle, but the good king couldn't help but notice that this time around the sounds were different. Even as he led the right flank defenses, Aragorn had enough time and mind to spare to ponder on how the sound of this battle was different from those he had fought during the War of the Ring. Something was missing, and it took him less than a minute to realize that he could not hear the harsh grunts of Orcs, the loud rumble of trolls, nor the deafening, head-splitting screams of a Nazgûl.

It dawned on the king, even as he thrust Andúril into an attacking Easterling soldier, that all the voices around him seemed the same; the breathless groan of the one he was slaying right then was almost equal to that of any soldier of Gondor. Cold realization hit him that they were fighting and killing men; not heartless beasts spawned by an evil force, but men whose blood was as red as his own, men that were awaited by mothers, fathers, wives and children.

Pulling his sword out of the lifeless body, with something akin to nausea growing in his entrails, Aragorn watched helplessly as man recklessly slashed at man, faces disfigured with hate and fright. This battle was different, different from the indistinct haze he was used to have around him when he fought, always concentrating only on the foes at hand. That day there was no haze; every move around him became terribly clear and sharp as he witnessed the folly of his race. He stood frozen before such direness, unable to concentrate in a single action, leaving him an easy prey for the numerous eastern marauders who tried to seize the opportunity and crown themselves victors over Elessar's dead body. They would have succeeded, had it not been for Neithan's watchful eyes and swift limbs that carried him to stand between the dark soldiers and the dumbfounded king.

It was until then that Aragorn noticed the young man who had not left his side, not even when the confusion of the battle made his task almost impossible. Neithan had to abandon his horse, finding it easier to stick with the King of Men while on foot. Aragorn's mind focused on Neithan whilst realizing how near he'd been from death because of his heedlessness. Shaking his head, the king had to drive all his will to push his previous thoughts inside for later self-torment; everything was wrong around him, but no good could come to the world if he died right there and then. And so Aragorn's soul returned to his body and his mind to the battle, not before sparing a thankful glance to his savior, who dealt death to anyone who dared go near the right flank of the King of Gondor.

Gratitude instantly became wonder as Aragorn watched Neithan's full battle skills. Feeling relatively safe while protected by such a ferocious defender, Aragorn allowed himself to watch the young man for a few moments, his astonishment growing with every passing second.

Neithan fought and killed with such ease that he almost appeared to do so joyfully. All of his attacks were swift, steady and deathly accurate; Aragorn noticed how his stance and motions had an Elven grace and quality to them. It was then that he also became aware of the bloodied sword swinging weightlessly in the young man's firm hand: an Elven sword, and his foster brother's no less.

"Legolas…" the king whispered to none but himself. "How did you know he'd be so worthy of Elladan's dear sword?"

"They overwhelm us! Don't let them drive us back!" The desperate cries from the frontal line forced Aragorn out of his reverie. He swung Andúril at an Easterling who almost succeeded in strangling a young Gondorian soldier. The king hit the side of the enemy's head with the flat side of the sword, purposely delivering a non-deathly blow that saved the lad's life. Still Aragorn could not help but cringe as he heard the young man's lance being furiously thrust into the Easterling's limp body, even as he turned and made his way to the head of the infantry. It was death's feast day, and there was nothing the King of Men could do to make a difference.

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The Easterlings were more numerous, almost overwhelmingly so. Their frontal line kept thickening with more and more dark clad soldiers that feverishly pushed even against and over the dead bodies of their own companions that had fallen either pierced by the long Gondorian lances, or simply smothered by the tight-pressing crowd that struggled to break through the quickly dwindling first line of Gondorian long shields and lances.

"Hold the lines! Hold the lines!" It was the insistent and rather fraught command of every official of Gondor as pressure became overwhelming and the entire infantry of Anarion began inching back slowly, yielding position to the raw strength of the Easterling ramming front.

To make matters direr, every attack on the flanks had been to that point fended off by the brave Gondorian cavalry, but both horses and riders were wearing out at an alarming rate, and the Easterlings' attempts became more frequent and vicious as more soldiers kept coming to expand the raging lines.

Long minutes went by and hope began to fade among the western soldiers just as strength began to drain from their limbs, giving way to the numb pain that overcomes men's bodies when they are about to give up on a long strain. The men in the front line began falling to exhaustion and to the merciless sun of the southern lands, their bodies overheated and dehydrated inside the heaviness and confinement of their sturdy armors, and asphyxiated within the suffocating, tight crowd. Those who were left strong enough to resist a while longer had to struggle to keep their footing upon the slimy terrain, for under the stomping feet of thousands of warriors, the River Poros and its banks had become nothing short of a slippery sludge trap to which more and more men of both bands fell, only to be trampled to death by their enemies and sometimes by their own companions.

A desperate cry began forming in the chests of many a soldier of the Army of the White Tree, but it was one young man recently promoted from squire who dared voice it while dropping his weapons, tears brimming in his weary eyes.

"Retreat!"

"Retreat!" The voice was small and quivering, and yet most of the men around him could hear it, mirroring their own urge to turn and flee for their lives. Some arms were dropped to the sides; head low, feet aching to run away from it all.

"Stand your ground!" Aragorn's imperative, yet commanding order came just in time to prevent the tragedy as he finally arrived to the dwindling front. Every man in that field knew that if they were to turn their backs on their enemy, they would all be surely killed and all would be lost.

"My brothers, know that this day and the future of our kingdom rest on your will and strength not to yield today. This is your land you stand upon! Don't let them take one more inch from you!"

Aragorn came down from his horse as he shouted these words, and joining the group of exhausted men, he began pushing forward with all of his might.

"I do not ask you to hold the lines. I ask you to push our enemy back and out of our land!"

The closeness of the king, and his stirring display of bravery renewed the strength of many, and all thoughts of giving up left them. They could no longer hear the small and quivering voice crying "Retreat". All they could hear was the king's dominating shouts of "Forward! Forward! As one!" amongst them. But still, all of them knew that such courageous stand would wear and last for only a while longer, and unless a miracle should happen, they would soon be overrun by the sheer brute strength of the barbarian horde.

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Aragorn sighed inwardly, even as he bent his body to push forward with as much strength as he could muster. How could he inspire these battered men when he was the most fearful one among them?

The King of Men pressed his chest against the nameless soldier in front of him, his forehead pushing against the damp dark hair, feeling the man's ragged breathing and the spasmodic shudders of the soldier's worn-out muscles. It was then that Aragorn felt all traces of control slipping from him, leaving him only with the option to push and shout as valiantly as he could. There was no genius strategy he could use, no clever scheme that could save him now. There he stood, trying to hold together the thin line of desperate, exhausted men standing as last defense between a raiding host and all that he held dear: his beloved Evenstar, now bearing him an heir; his beautiful, prosperous lands; his people, who trusted only him.

He closed his eyes, his mind screaming out at Aramarth, who had walked them all into such a deadly trap.

"_King of Fate, where are you now?"_

A dark shadow grew inside of him, a cold voice that told him Aramarth would fail to return on time, that all would be lost because of the Elven King's haughtiness; and Aragorn's struggling grunts became roars of rage, feeling betrayed and forsaken by one he called friend.

It was then that he felt the steady strength behind him, giving him enough leverage and support to keep on pushing. A familiar head came to rest over his shoulder, the short, soft stubble brushing against the king's tired cheek.

"Neithan!"

The young man had the struggle of his life following Aragorn to the front line through a jungle of tight, pushing, armored men; but it was near impossible to tire him once his mind was bent onto something, and even though it took him a while, he finally found himself right against the back of his charge. Aragorn could not believe the bold youth had followed him so far.

"Neithan, this is about…. the most dangerous place…. you can be at. You are not even wearing battle garb." Aragorn said, trying to catch his breath.

Neithan pushed further still, supporting the winded king and giving him the, until then, implausible chance to breathe easily and rest his battered body. Aragorn felt the young man smiling against his cheek. "Well, it'd be more dangerous for me to turn back now."

"Neithan," Aragorn said, still in disbelief of the man's strength. "This is not even your battle. Why have you come to such ends?"

Neithan's smile deepened. "The Bright One posed me to protect you."

"The Bright One... Aramarth?"

"Aye. Can't you feel him coming to us? I feel them in the air; they are near now. Do not give up to despair and hold on to your hope, Estel. The Bright One will crush the eastern men to no end."

The soft murmur of Neithan's voice next to him contrasted with the ominous words he uttered. Yet Aragorn had no time to analyze the young man's mysterious ways. The doom of his army was at hand and now was the time to give out the best they had to resist the lunge of Brodda's host.

"Hold your ground! Grip your shields tightly!"

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The laughter of a mad man filled the official ranks of the Easterling encampment. "Send them all! Crush them down!"

No word of reason reached the emperor's distraught mind, no matter how hard his elders tried to convince him of the perils of packing the whole eastern army into a tight melee.

"What can they do?" roared Brodda, pushing the officials away from him. "They are defeated, and they know it. There is nothing they can do!

"I will break into the damned elf's land and pour my vengeance onto it. Send word right now for the full imperial army to come to me from the glorious Khand! We will rape and pillage all that is at hand. MY revenge will go on even to the lands of Elessar for befriending that craven elf!

"Send them all! Do as I say!"

And so it was, as Aramarth had foreseen, all of the eastern army packed together into a single group that pushed against the tired army of the White Tree, leaving them an easy prey for a storm cavalry attack.

And just when the last eastern soldier had been sent to the crowd and there was no turning back, a cloud of hay-colored dust rose from the south, wiping the maniacal smile off Brodda's face.

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Confusion broke in the disarrayed lines of the eastern host. Some turned around to face the newcomers; some kept on pushing against the now unmovable infantry of Anarion; and some, sensing the nearness of their doom, turned north and tried to flee, only furthering confusion and death as many were trampled in the attempt to escape. Those who managed to break from the asphyxiating lines ran into the thick bush-land that stretched north alongside the Poros River. It was a trap; it had been from the very beginning.

The bright, beautiful Elven armors atop vigorous steeds became visible ahead of the dust-rise, and a loud cheer arose from the army of Gondor upon seeing their rescuers arriving in full strength and glory.

'The Bright One' raised Aiglos high, causing even louder cheers, and everyone on the field prepared for the imminent collision of the Elven army against the swarming Easterling host, all eyes fixed upon the terrible beauty of Aramarth and his stony riders.

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It had to be a joyful moment for Maur-agar. The coal-colored stallion rammed against the first lines of petrified soldiers, never lowering the vertiginous speed it had reached on the race from the south, and easily avoiding the feeble attempts of the Easterlings to stop its powerful lunge with lances and curved swords. The war-horse's broad hooves trod over the throng of men as if they were mere grass leaves, crushing them down with glee, and using only the brutal strength of its massive muscles.

Perched high upon such unleashed darkness, Aramarth did nothing to restrain the horse's killing frenzy but let go of the leather reins, using both hands to add to the damage his mount was causing on its own. He had entered the swarm, lowering Aiglos with his left arm, accurately cleaving through a myriad helpless Easterlings. And now Hadhafang also sang its shrill, death song while firmly gripped in the Elven King's right hand.

It seemed to Aragorn that had the Elven King been riding alone, he would have, all by himself, broken and scattered the eastern lines. But no, he was not riding alone; the king's furious attack was perfectly followed, mirrored and carried to a disturbingly skilled completion by every one of his five hundred warriors.

The Elven host's tight lines of riders came upon the Easterlings in a wrapping maneuver that foiled every attempt of escape or defense, driving Brodda's men either into the spikes of the Gondorian lances, or the prickly tangle that was the bush-land along the north side of the Poros riverbank.

Soon enough, the Gondorians' animated cheers that had accompanied the Elven raid died down to an awed silence, as the worn out soldiers stood fixed upon the ground, inertly watching the Easterlings' demise. For Elessar's men, the eastern soldiers were worthy adversaries: strong, fast and passionate warriors who laid down their lives for their emperor without a second thought.

But Aramarth's warriors were faster, stronger, cunning and skillful far beyond the potential of any man. The advantages of their race were unflinchingly evident as they smote their enemies to an endless wreck. Nimbleness, precision, awareness, all perfected together in five hundred merciless, lethal warriors that swept Brodda's men as if they were nothing but straw-filled scarecrows.

Aragorn's relief for the now certain victory was short-lived as he was witness to a battle so unequal and unjust that he wasn't sure it could be called a battle but a killing game. He stepped back from the infantry's frontline and climbed upon his horse, hoping to get a better view, and to be better seen as well. He called back to a herald, signaling to bring his flags and trumpets.

"Sound the victory. Have the victors show mercy to our defeated foes," instructed the king, hoping to put an end to the manslaughter. The young herald hesitated in his spot, eyes fixed upon the elves that advanced upon their powerless opponents like a tidal wave.

"What are you waiting for? Do as I say!"

Standing next to the fraught king, Neithan voiced what Aragorn already knew in his heart.

"It is no use. He will not stop; he would never stop."

And seeing Aramarth's cold, wrathful eyes shining beneath the venerable helm of Elrond Peredhil, Aragorn knew that nothing within the circles of the world would end his implacable advance.

Aramarth the Bright One, as Neithan had called him, stood taller than any other man or elf upon the slaughter field the Poros had turned into, proudly leading the frightening advance of the Eldar riders. All the eyes of those witnessing his devastating charge were fixated on him, the mere sight of all that he was awakening the most varied feelings. Many eyes watched him petrified with fear, horrified by the ruin he could summon; others regarded him with awed reverence.

But two pairs of eyes watched the Elven King with such admiration that the feeling could almost be defined as desire; an overwhelming need to see and feel more of him, to be a part of his greatness. So strong this emotion was, that these two hearts were forever bent towards Aramarth; the loyalties within them irrevocably shifted from one great beacon of light to an even brighter one.

Out on the field, Aramarth's ears easily picked up the trumpet sound for clemency, but the orders given to his riders had been short and simple: no prisoners should be taken, and no mercy was to be shown. He wasn't about to change his mind over the feeble call for mercy. Instead of calling his riders to bring the attack to an end, he turned east, pointing Maur-agar's bloody head towards the Easterling's encampment… and Brodda.

Aragorn saw the Elven King turning and riding alone, heading straight to the unprotected post of the Emperor of the East. Realizing the elf's ignoble intentions, the King of Men cried, anguished.

"No! Aramarth, it's enough! Enough!"

He had to go, he had to stop him before the elf did something rash and out of spite. It was one thing to engage in battle with an enemy; but to show no mercy and break all the unspoken rules of war was beneath any elf or man, malice reserved only for Orcs and barbarians.

The infantry line stood unmoved before Elessar, even when there was nothing else to contain or fight back. Before the muddied soldiers of the Gondorian front, there was nothing left of their enemies but corpses and agonizing men, both piled and dispersed throughout the grimy field. Even then, to the north, everyone could see the elves following the fleeing Easterlings into the thorns of the bushes.

"Make me a way! Make way!" Aragorn ordered, eyes fixed upon the swift Maur-agar galloping away, carrying Aramarth to a final meeting with the defeated Emperor of the East.

Finally, the soldiers moved back, and a dicey passage was cleared. He rode hard over the desolation left behind by Aramarth's ruthless anger.

"Aramarth! Aramarth!"

All the while he cried out the elf's name, knowing that even from such a distance he could hear him. But Maur-agar's powerful legs had already reached the outskirts of Brodda's military camp, and Aragorn could by then see the Easterling officials and elders taking flight into the Haradrim wild lands.

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Brodda did not even try to run, knowing that the elf was coming for him and there was no way he could escape. He fell on his knees, and lowering his head, the emperor waited.

And before long the proud King of Elves was coming down from the great black stallion, and walked slowly but determinedly to finally stand before him so that Brodda could see the elf's armored legs, smeared with the blood of his loyal vassals.

"Raise your head and look at me." The voice was cold, but controlled.

Brodda expected to find scorn, derision, and contempt in the eyes of the Elven King who had come to be his bane. But as he looked upon the warrior's cerulean eyes, he found them to be just indomitable, filled with headstrong resolution.

The emperor's next words came out of him with great pain, as he renounced all his pride to be able to utter them.

"I ask for mercy not for myself, but for my daughters, my family, my people, and my empire that will be lost and torn apart if I'm to die at your hand today."

Aramarth reached for the emperor's red mantle, ripping it off the clasps that held it to Brodda's neck in a single, violent pull. He then silently wiped the blood off Hadhafang, putting great care into cleaning the beautiful blade.

"This is the sword of Elrond of Rivendell, sire to the Lady Undomiel," he said calmly, throwing the cloak away and raising the clean sword for Brodda to see.

The emperor remained silent, unflinching – a last proud stand even as he kneeled before his certain death.

"This is the very sword that severed your son's head from his body…" The elf paused, tilting his head toward the sword as if trying to listen to it. "I can hear the blade's icy voice… Can you hear it, emperor?

"It asks to claim the last of your verve… it craves to taste your blood! YOU THINK I AM GOING TO GIVE YOU MERCY?"

Behind the elf, the King of Men rode his horse beyond its limits, always crying out, shouting, "Aramarth, cease this! Don't do this!"

But Aramarth was not to be stopped, not even by the desperate calls of his friend, and he simply raised the sword in one unflinching hand.

"Say your prayers, emperor, to whatever it is that you pray to."

Brodda smiled softly, reaching to his chest with his hand. "It is an honor to die by the hand of such a worthy warrior. But know this and know it well, King of the Fair Folk: with all the beauty, strength, and power you hold, you cannot stop or even see the fate that hangs upon your head. It will befall you and those you hold dearest in a wintry night, when and from where you least expect it. You cannot escape it, not you, your people, or your precious Evenstar."

"Please, Legolas, NO!" Aragorn's plead seemed too distant and weak even as the King of Men was already only a few feet behind the elf.

"I do not fear the dull omens and curses of a dying man," Aramarth said, swinging the light sword at Brodda's plump neck and cleanly beheading the Emperor of the East.

Behind him, the King of Gondor fell to his knees, staggered by the rawness of the emperor's needless death, a demise he could not prevent for all his efforts.

Aramarth turned around and made his way to be off, leaving Brodda's body for the sport of the vultures already gathering for their great feast at the Poros River, and Aragorn's bent form still trying to find his voice and words to rebuke the elf for such a brutal deed.

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Thank you so much for reading.

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Next Chapter: Motives


	13. Motives

CHAPTER 12

MOTIVES

The Elven king stopped the charger's gallop right before crossing the Poros', by then, calm muddle, and turned north to see his riders returning from hounding after the few remaining Easterlings. Neithan came forward to meet him, carefully dodging the corpses lying on the field, even though his garments were drenched in Easterling blood. In his left arm, the borrowed sword gleamed clean as he had put great care into it soon after the battle was won, and now he could proudly give it back to the one who had entrusted such great weapon to his arm.

The young man sought Aramarth's eyes for approval before bowing slightly to the victorious king, but all he could glimpse was great weariness in the elf's hazy eyes as they didn't meet Neithan's searching ones, but focused in surveying the vast ruin he'd caused in less than an hour.

He watched the elf dismount from the huffing beast, noticing how slow and wary his movements seemed, and the young one's prying eyes could even catch a slight cringe in Aramarth's face as his feet met the ground with a quiet thud. Neithan's instinct drove him to step forward and try to offer support to the seemingly exhausted king. But before he could, Aramarth's eyes were fixed on his, a veiled warning not to come too close written in the grayish blue orbs.

"Young man," spoke the king as salutation, his voice firm and clear, his stance tall and proud, and his eyes, now clear, studying the warrior before him.

"I see that you put Elladan's sword to good use."

Neithan hesitated to answer, still confused by the brief moment of weakness he thought he'd seen in the Elven king; but the very image of Aramarth's commanding presence, and the deeds he'd witnessed that day allowed him to cast aside any conjecture as a simple misunderstanding from his part. He extended the Elven sword to its rightful owner; head once again bowed low in deep respect.

"I did as best as I could; but it is a great blade that undoubtedly helped me perform beyond my abilities. I thank you for entrusting it to this humble boy."

"Humble boy," Aramarth whispered, striding past Neithan without taking the sword from his hands. "I somehow find such words hard to apply to you right now, and I'm sure many men that fought alongside you today think the same way."

The king continued walking, dragging Maur-agar's restlessness along from the sodden bridle to retrieve Aiglos from a heap of corpses not far from the riverbed. Neithan followed him, the sword held awkwardly high between both his hands as he was still meaning to give it back.

"You look ridiculous carrying that blade around like that," Aramarth said as the young man caught up and walked side by side with him. "I thought I gave you a good scabbard to strap it around your waist like a warrior should. Why don't you use it?"

A small smile appeared in Neithan's face, as he finally understood the elf's intentions.

"You've earned the right to keep it," added Aramarth, just as Rúmil the Galadhrim reached the site and took hold of the king's full attention.

"It is done, my lord."

Aramarth nodded pensively.

"Losses?"

"Two, my lord."

"Say not the names of them, I do not wish to know yet… Wounded?"

"Some grave ones; most of us were considerably injured in the confusion and the hunt inside the shrub."

"Do you know if the healing quarters are set up?"

"They are, my lord."

"Will you be alright, Rúmil?" The king's voice seemed to falter at this point.

"Please, do not worry over me, Great Sir; 'tis a small price for such a great victory. And you…" added the Elven soldier, looking at Aramarth with admiration nothing short of adoration. "You are always the favored of the Valar, not even a scratch upon you after such a brutal clash."

Neithan noticed how Aramarth's eyes clouded again as he turned away from his loyal vassal, seemingly distracted by the force of death all around them, force he had single-handedly brought upon thousands that day.

The king hastily handed Maur-agar's reins to the Elven official, careful not to meet his eyes.

"See that everyone is cared for, including yourself, and have the healers help the Gondorians as much as they can. Warn everyone not to come to me for a few hours for I retire now to pray. And take this animal from my sight; I don't ever wish to ride it again."

With no other word, the king made his way up the first hills of Ithilien, leaving Neithan wondering about his erratic behavior, and Rúmil eyeing the black steed under his charge warily.

"Come, herald of death!" the Galadhrim said, pulling at the reins carefully. "I'm too weary for you to give me a hard time."

"I can take care of it if you wish. I lost the steed given to me in the battle anyway, and have none to care for now. And you ought to see to those wounds."

Rúmil was more than skeptic. "You think you are up to this beast?"

"I think there is no better moment than now to get close to it."

"And why would you say that?"

Neithan stepped forward, taking the rein from the elf in a smooth, fluid motion. "Because he's spent and fulfilled from the battle; the thirsty demon inside of him is for a while sated."

The young man pulled at the horse's rein gently, leading it up the hill and away from the muddy terrain; and in Rúmil's astonishment, Maur-agar followed him with no great resistance.

"That is no common boy, that much is for sure," muttered the elf, reaching for his own docile horse to head for the healing quarters.

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His strength nearly deserted him more than once as he made his way up towards the forest patch on top of the hill, straining to walk with as much poise as he could. His body was rebelling against the controlled composure of his mind, and every step became more torturous, even against the gentle slope he was ascending. The smell of blood behind him, around him… all over him, became nauseating; revolting to his mind, body and soul; forcing him to breathe as little as he could, small, shallow breaths; and to focus only on reaching the tree line over the hilltop.

He leaned his body on the noble Aiglos, now used as a common walking stick, fighting the numb pain on his arm from carrying such a heavy burden, but still proudly refusing to drag the great spear, at least not where his elves could see him.

No, he could not be seen in his weakness; anything but that. Such concern overwhelmed all pain and weariness, and he picked up his pace, wanting only to disappear from the sight of the whole world.

But there was one that would not let him disappear, one that already rode up the hill after him. The pounding sound of the horse's hooves behind him hammered at Aramarth's head with pain so piercing, that he almost dropped Gil-Galad's spear and had to stop his march to try and recover his balance.

He shook his head slightly, renewing his agonic ascend and trying to disregard the rider after him. But the rider was not to be ignored, and soon Aragorn, King of the realm of Gondor, stopped his winded horse before the King of Elves to effectively disrupt his advance.

"Get out of my way, Elessar," Aramarth muttered, eyes staring down towards the ground.

"No, you will hear me now." Aragorn's barely contained anger was evident in his voice.

"I have not the time for this; I must go to my prayers."

"Prayers? Now you want to seek the forgiveness of the Valar?"

Aramarth remained silent, eyes cast down.

"Very well, Elf King, but you must brace yourself like a man and answer to me first. And look at me when I talk to you!"

Aramarth raised his head slowly, and the kindled blaze in his eyes was enough to startle Aragorn's horse back and away from him.

"I am no man, Elessar. I warn you not to discredit my justice."

Aragorn came down from his mount, and neared Aramarth until only the space of a heartbeat separated their faces. "You call that massacre justice? Turn around and see the ruin you have devised."

The Elven king held his ground, facing Aragorn's frontal dare unflinchingly. "I only risk my heart and my life for what's worth the risk. What was done today had to be done; there was no other way."

Aragorn turned away, as if disgusted. "You reek of blood, not only of the ones you murdered today but of many innocent ones in the lands of Khand that will fall victims of your spite. Don't you know the fate that awaits those living under Brodda's command? The clans will scatter, a war for power where kinsmen will rise against each other. Without Brodda's unifying command they are doomed to disappear into barbarism."

"And so their threat to our lands is over. Isn't it, Aragorn?"

"But at what price! Such logic does not belong to the heart of a good king. Why, Legolas? Why have you done this? Disregarding of my counsel and everything I believe in. Why?" Tears sprung to Aragorn's eyes, overwhelmed by the bereavement he had witnessed and feeling betrayed by a friend he no longer knew. But Aramarth remained unmovable before the King of Men's tears.

"I do not expect you to understand my motives," he said coldly, walking past the shaken man and towards his yearned forest.

"Then explain them to me, that I may try to understand what you've become!" cried Aragorn, seizing Aramarth by his shoulder and pulling him back.

The Elven king recoiled as if burned from the man's firm grip, and struggling free from it, he continued his single-minded march, without so much as a word to the distraught Aragorn.

"What is it? Tell me what drove you to such slaughter!" Aragorn near shouted, following Aramarth closely from behind, but too irate to notice the slight limp in the elf's gait.

"Was it the death of your dog? Does your revenge for a pet reach to such ends?"

"Stop barking nonsense on my neck, Aragorn; it does not fit you," the elf managed to say through tightly gritted teeth, still refusing to turn back to face the man.

"Then what? Did you do this… for MY wife?"

This time there was no answer from the fleeing elf.

"That is it, isn't it? You thought me unable to champion my own queen, and took matters into your own hands to come out the hero before her!"

The words were finally enough to stop the Elven king's stride and make him turn around.

"Calm down that hot head of yours, King of Men. Do not say words you will later regret."

Sense and control seemed to return to Aragorn upon staring at the cold anger his rash words had sparked in Aramarth's eyes. He stepped back twice, lowering his defying gaze to the ground. "I only seek to understand what you've done today, so after tomorrow I may still call you my friend. Right now I do not know who or what you are or if I can ever trust you again."

Aramarth let out a long, tired sigh, knowing what he was about to speak was only going to make matters worse for his confused friend.

"You must know then, Aragorn, that I did what I did to honor duty and sworn oaths to those who wrought me into what I am today.

"Most likely you will never understand what I am, nor will you approve of the decisions I will take. But what I do or not do is not for you to judge, for those who gave me their rights over the future of this world would not have me asking permission to wield my sword, nor wasting precious time explaining my actions, for I'm responsible only to those who taught me, and the gods."

The slow, powerful cadence of the Elven king's voice, and the inevitable, yet terrible legitimacy in his words had rendered Aragorn speechless, unable to dispute him. And Aramarth continued to speak with no interruption.

"To be implacable against treason, to wipe my adversaries out of my way, to not prolong the battle but finish it swiftly; such are the responsibilities I learned well, and today I fulfilled them all in the light of what my teachers instructed."

A long silence fell between the two kings as Aragorn pondered over the words he'd heard. All anger had been drained from him, replaced by an ominous sense of disquiet upon knowing all Aramarth had said was truth, but still unable to understand why the Eldar nobles had come to such extremes in the bestowed authority of their only heir.

"I will never speak to you again on this matter, Aragorn; and that is why I must leave everything clear to you now."

"Speak then, I am listening."

"I have taken the protection of Arwen as my pledge; for she is the Evenstar of my people, and cherished above any other in this world. No matter how much you think she belongs to you, I will not bother to seek your consent when it comes to defending her or the child she bears. If I'm ever in the need to go against your will to do what I think best for their safety, I will not hesitate to do so. Until the day she falls to the fate your love brought upon her and the grave consumes her beauty, I will protect her, paying no heed to the cost or the consequences. Do you understand this?"

A cold hand bit at Aragorn's entrails, feeling helpless before the Elven king's irrevocable decree. He wanted to gripe, to shout out the grievance that had fallen upon his shoulders; but deep inside he knew there was no use to voice his discontent. Gripped by a new fear of the power that had risen in one he once called friend, the King of Men, against his wishes, nodded numbly, unable to look in the eyes of Aramarth.

"I understand."

"You do not approve..."

"No, but that is irrelevant to you."

"Will you confront me on this?"

"Why would you care if I do?"

"Because I hope you can still believe that the part of me not bound by duty and oath values your friendship beyond anything you can imagine."

Aragorn was taken aback by the sudden fond candidness of the elf's words; still he managed to respond.

"I see your eyes and I know you speak truth in this as much as before."

"Aragorn, this clash between us does not please me. I was left behind with this burden to be able to stand behind you and give you strength as well. I am not your enemy; I am on your side and will fight for you until the last drop of my blood is spilled. I was hoping we could get through this together as we always have."

Aragorn stepped away from him, turning to leave. "I need time to even try to accept this. I take your leave, and ask you to remember me in your prayers."

"I will."

And so it was that the kings parted ways, one to the refuge of the forest and the other to the comforting embrace of his wife. Both knew that the friendship they once shared would never be the same again.

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Hello, my dear, ever-patient readers! Once again I'm back with a sack of apologizes… But also good news!

Yes, I'm posting two chapters almost at once, one today, one tomorrow!

But wait wait wait!

Before you go to next chapter, for the love of God, review this one.


	14. Conversations

CHAPTER 13

CONVERSATIONS

"I am here."

The icy voice near his ear made Neithan jump out of his reverie, as he had been completely absorbed in contemplating the exquisite craftsmanship of the Elven sword he had been given that day.

The massive black steed that had been lazily grazing next to him began a frantic pull away from the branch he'd tied it to, and oddly enough, the horse did not emit one sound as it struggled to break free, as if it was strangled by fear.

"Master!" Neithan nearly squealed, leaping from the log he'd been sitting on, and backing a few steps away from the Dark Elf.

"You are not pleased to see me," the Dark One said, coming so near the young man that he could feel the elf's shadows creeping into his skin.

Neithan struggled not to inch away, not to show how much his "father's" presence appalled him. He had a strong, resolute mind; and so he was able to keep a steady stance and a straight face; but deep inside he knew that the one before him could read his mind like an open book.

"You thought I was gone from your newly found life," said the elf, lifting a pale, long hand to caress Neithan's cheek. "You thought you could avoid me, escape me; and yet I've been watching you all along, how you seek solitude, always wandering away from your… new friends."

The lean fingers reached the young man's scalp, grasping the black tresses and pulling his face back.

"You can't escape me, Agarwaen, simply because you can't escape yourself and who you are. That is why you turn away from these men you wish you could join. You are not like them; you cannot be a mere soldier of Gondor, a devotee to this ranger turned king. Your destiny is far greater than his."

Neithan tried to ignore the voices and indistinct memories sparked inside of him upon been called by this new name… Agarwaen; it was hurtfully familiar to his ears, and terribly confusing to his mind. He finally pushed them back inside, and mustered enough courage to talk back to the elf that had raised him to be what he'd become.

"Your plans failed," he managed to mutter, unable to say another word.

The hand holding on to his scalp pulled further back, and the Dark Elf's bitter, hollow laughter filled the air around him.

"It would seem that way to you, yes. After all, you betrayed the hand that tended to your birth, for the enticing eyes of an Elven maiden, thus standing in the way of your own fate. But what's been set in motion cannot be stopped now; my vengeance cannot be prevented!"

Neithan cringed as the last words were spat on his face, and wished he could reach out for his slender Elven blade and sever his master's head off. He thought of Aramarth, and how if he were there with him, the mere brightness of his presence would give him the courage to do so.

The Dark Elf peered into the youth's eyes and released his hair, slapping Neithan hard across the face; and at that moment, Maur-agar finally succeeded in tearing off the branch he was tied to, leaving Neithan utterly alone.

The young man fell to his knees, slumping before his master like he had done so many times before, since he had the curse of the use of memory. For Aramarth was not there to encourage him, and so he went back to be the submissive boy he'd always been whenever his lord tested his authority.

"How dare you compare me to that boastful wood elf? How dare you love him more than me?"

Neithan curled into a tight fetal position, wishing he could close his mind to the insidious scrutiny of his master; but no matter how hard he tried, he could not resist the brutal, forceful invasion of his most private thoughts.

"You wretched, covetous fool! Do you not think I've seen your eyes longing for his strength, his glory? Not only that I've seen but your mind, wanting only to live under the shadow of his name, to serve that forged brilliance he so struggles to carry.

"You would settle for the crumbs from his table when you could seize his crown and wear it!" The Dark Elf started pacing agitatedly around the diminished young man, spitting down hasty, yet sharp words to him.

"You are the one who failed; you've failed to see that your name is to be far greater than that of any king, man or elf that walks this earth. You are to snatch the wood elf's kingdom along with Elessar's…" The dark one paused, choosing his next words with great care.

"You could seize Aragorn's kingdom, along with **every one** of his possessions… even that pale queen of his would be yours."

Neithan's head rose slowly; and the Dark Elf was pleased to see his words were hitting the mark. He continued talking, his voice now soft and beguiling. "Yes, Agarwaen, you would finally have the queen you were always denied, and she would love you, for you will be powerful and magnificent, more so than the two kings that now fascinate her shifting heart."

The young man stood up straight, his eyes focusing on nothing in particular, and yet the eye of his mind had been caught by the words of the Dark Elf, and was beginning to look upon things he had not yet dared to dream of.

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It was so different to walk among those she still called her people. She was almost used to walk among the sons and daughters of the mortal folk, feeling their shy, uneasy stares full of awe but also a strange mix of fear, wonder, doubt, and envy.

Here, walking in the midst of the Elven encampment, she felt no such confusing thoughts directed at her slowly moving form. The elves of Ithilien dedicated her their long, open stares, full of warm regard and love that mixed only with a soft hint of sadness upon looking at her, nodding graciously as she made her way to the core of the camp.

She felt at home and safe, feelings she had not indulged in for a very long time while dwelling among men. And she had desperately missed the silken sound of Eldar songs, which now seemed to come from every corner of the Elven encampment, as songs were used to calm and soothe the wounded soldiers.

"My lady Evenstar," came the greeting from Rumil the Galadhrim that had come to meet her.

"Rumil," she barely whispered, still relishing the beautiful sound of dozens of her kin around her.

"You have come to see him," he said, offering her his arm so they could walk together.

"Yes, I will have you take me to his side, if he'd receive me," said the queen, walking arm in arm with her kinsman, content to follow him wherever he should lead.

"He was away praying deep into the forest for what was left of the day and until twilight descended, and came into his tent when the first stars greeted Arda, saying none should come into his presence until morning come," Rumil said, his gaze directed straight forward.

Arwen made a small attempt to stop, somewhat disappointed by Rumil's words; but the Elven official nudged her to walk forward, smiling almost impishly. "I honestly don't believe he meant you though," he said, while still leading the way.

The queen noticed how there were less and less elves as they advanced, until there were only the two of them walking through the moss-colored tents; she also noticed how the air seemed to hum softly, knowing then that Rumil was taking her straight to his lord's presence.

"I don't recall Legolas being the type that prays too much," she said, trying to make some small talk to break from the slight euphoria the air around her was driving her into.

Rumil stopped his march, turning to look upon her face. "He was taught never to forget gratitude. In the battlefield he was aided by the gods, the Powers above placed everything in place and allowed him to excel in his every effort, even beyond what his physical capabilities allow. This is why, when the sun goes down, he kneels and gives thanks for the protective cloak that covers him."

"Why, Rumil? Why would the Lords and Valar favor him so much?"

"I do not know", he said, with little pause. "I do not know what he is, or why. All I know is that he IS, and I can only follow."

"He has become so…" She began to say, but was at a loss for words.

"Devastating, I know," finished Rumil, holding her hand comfortingly. "I've tried to understand this as well, my lady; the serenity of his peace and the wreck of his wrath, and I have come to this poetic conclusion, if you'd allow me to share it with you."

"Please do."

The Elven official sighed slowly, breathing in the pulsating air around them.

"He's a rock," he said with certainty, his eyes looking up to the stars for inspiration.

"While the world around him was in harmony, he was leveled on the ground, his might was stable. But his world has been shaken, and now he has been placed on steep terrain, the things around him show no respect, so his strength has been revealed, rolling towards this enemy that threatened his peace. As you have seen, he becomes devastating in these moments, and none can stop him."

Arwen opened her mouth to comment on the elf's musings, but found herself unable to say anything yet again.

"If you could see him fight from a short distance as I have, if you could really contemplate it all as I have… Centuries of wisdom and dedication in every swing of his sword. The strength and skill of great warriors of the past, honoring the movements of the past generations that gave him life…"

The elven official let go of the slender hand he'd been holding, walking away from her slowly. "Let us not talk on something you can behold and muse on yourself. My words are insipid and silly. I will do well and announce you to the king."

Arwen stood very still, like a solitary watchtower before the entrance of the larger tent of the king of elves, as Rumil disappeared behind it. She had been so entranced by the Galadhrim's discourse that she had failed to see they had been standing before it all along.

Not a minute had passed, and yet the time that Rumil took to come back out seemed eternal to the silent queen. He came to her, and whispered her to go inside. "He awaits you," he said, bowing and kissing her brow before leaving hastily.

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She walked in in a soft hush, her eyes seeking him in the dim light of the tent. She found him seated upon a dust-colored linen bed, clad in a black tunic. His eyes were cast down; his body was bent as if very tired or in pain.

She was instantly worried and upset by his stance, so much that she failed to notice the thick smell of blood inside the tent.

"Legolas?" she called, walking towards him.

He straightened up slowly, until his bearing was that of an undefeatable king again. His eyes found hers, bidding her to stop her worried approach. She complied.

"Arwen."

It was a call; it was a plea, a greeting and a farewell; a lament and praise, a sweet welcome and an aching warning not to come too near; an agonizing moan, an elated sigh. The queen could not begin to define the feelings elicited by hearing her name whispered by him in such a way. All she knew was the longing to hear him say it again, and again.

Silence fell between them, silence that seemed to scream at them both to say something, say anything. For the longest minutes silence was victorious, but it was the king who broke its spell.

"You shouldn't be here," he said. His voice had lost the turmoil it had when he had called her name. It was now calm, serene, and safe.

"And yet here I am," she replied, without a second thought.

"Yes you are, most likely against the wishes of Aragorn, or perhaps without his consent or knowledge?"

Her cobalt eyes held his gaze, sparking and slightly amused but also annoyed. This time he was the one to look away from her intensity. "I am not one to skulk away like a mischievous child; Aragorn knows I am here. And yes, he was not pleased to have me come to you; the poor thing even attempted to forbid me to come."

His eyes turned to her, surprised and inquiring.

She turned from him, with the small victory of having him wondering and confused, and began to examine the tent, noticing the water basin and towels all crimson with blood. Flinching, she then noticed the bloody armor next to it, and assumed the blood was all from the Easterling victims of the king's wrath.

"You challenged Elessar?" he asked, still curious. She disguised the grimace of disgust as she turned to face him, succeeding in hiding it from the king.

"He is my husband, and I am his wife; I'm not a belonging of his, or a vassal. I still have a will of my own."

"Indeed you do, and I'm pleased to find out it is true. I was afraid you'd become as submissive and yielding as the mortal wives."

"Never, such is not my nature. Nor is it to wait forever until you have the decency to offer me a seat," she laughed merrily, boldly coming to sit right next to him.

"You mystify me, Evenstar," Aramarth said softly, his voice like a breeze playing among the vineyards of Rivendell. "It has been a long time since someone baffled me so... It is quite pleasing."

Her laughter dimmed to a soft hum that was unique to her voice. "And may I ask how, my lord, do I bewilder you so?"

"I never expected you to come to me tonight, nor could I imagine that your bearing would be so joyful and pleasant, especially after Aragorn's tirade."

"He doesn't understand, that's all," she said, searching for the comfort of his eyes.

"And you do?" he asked, allowing her to bask in that which she was seeking.

"I like to think I do understand you. I like to think I'm the only one who is beginning to understand what you are."

Their words came out in barely audible whispers, meant only for the other to hear.

"You don't resent my actions today? Do you not fear me for them?"

"No."

His face inched closer to hers, his eyes searching for answers in the deepest parts of her soul. "What do you feel then?"

She was prompted by his closeness to speak exactly what was on her mind. "I saw you today in the battlefield, Legolas… Aramarth; I saw the dark side of you, and found you in it, shining the brightest."

"You enjoyed what you saw?"

Arwen tried to look away, only to find out she was unable to. All she could do was answer…

"Yes."

"Do you know why I did it? Do you think you are ready to know?"

Any possible word in all the languages she knew deserted the queen; her thoughts seemed to stray into an iridescent doorway to his mind. She struggled to cross the threshold, to see the deeper, concealed side of him; but it appeared as if a wall had been built around his thoughts. Still, standing on the edge she was able to glimpse a familiar shape, a memory that stood as more intense than the rest. The thought became clearer, and recognition overwhelmed her like a hailstorm.

Words returned to her, and her voice, quivering, stated what she'd seen. "My Ada… my father?"

He pulled back, recoiling from her eyes. How could she see? How could she tear down the ramparts he had struggled so much to build?

She reached out to him, unwilling to be left out of this intimacy he had unknowingly shared with her. "Please, tell me!"

But he stood up, taking two long strides away from her.

He tried to calm his agitated breathing. "You should not be able to do that."

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Agarwaen: Bloodstained.

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Just some notes:

This story is meant to be about the complexity of different personalities, how feelings are never really defined, how thoughts shift and change. So what I'm saying here is: don't classify / judge a character based on a though or an action. They are supposed to be complex, their thoughts may differ form their actions, their feelings may be different from what they really want.

Why? You could ask, Why are they contradictory? Well because they are supposed to be that way, they are supposed to surprise you, sometimes pleasantly; sometimes they will disappoint you, or even scandalize you.

Again, why? It's because that's how real people is. Real people are not monochromatic. Our thoughts, our feelings are not black or white. There is a vast range of color in our personalities, and that's what makes life beautiful and interesting.

I'm trying to flesh out these characters, to make them colorful, unique, so be advised… they will surprise you, geez! Sometimes they even surprise me, I have this outline of what's going to happen, of what they are going to think, do or say when facing a situation I create, and sometimes I end up writing a completely different reaction, just because I feel, at the moment, that the character would react that way.

And it's funny … at the moment I struggle with it, because it feels wrong; because it's not perfect. But then again, life is not perfect, sometimes bad and wrong things happen… it's life.

I hope you'll understand what I'm saying, and join me in this journey. I feel that it's going to be a wild ride!

Wow! Sorry for the ramble.

I also want to thank Precious Jewelle for her precious proofreading. Couldn't do it without you!

And OK, so… I really would like to know what you thought of this, probably as much as you would like to know what happens next… so please review!

Cheers!

Elwe.


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